


Whatever Fate Decrees

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist!John, Bisexuality, Communication isn't a concept J + P understand, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Queer Culture, idiots to lovers, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 62,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: “When I was fifteen I was thinking, ‘If only I can get out of Liverpool and be famous and be rich, wouldn’t it be great?’ I was always thinking I was going to be a famous artist. And possibly I’d have to marry a very rich old lady, or man, to look after me while I did my art.” John Lennon, 1975An AU in which John pursues art (with the help of someone to look after him), Paul pursues music and the two of them meet in the middle.
Relationships: Brian Epstein/John Lennon, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 69
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Hello hello! This fic has been in the works for a little while and I’m excited to finally start getting it out into the world. A few things to note: I’ve made the choice to not make this a ‘John has gaynst’ fic. Of course, I still explore those themes (along with classism, masculinity and all those interlinking period-typical attitudes), but I do want to make this a true ‘John takes an alternate path’ fic that delves into the psyche of a John that leans more into his self-described “sensitive poet, the Oscar Wilde part of me with the velvet and the feminine side”. That doesn't take away from how spectacularly terrible John and Paul are at communicating their feelings, though. Another thing: Stuart lives! Why? Because I’m a self-indulgent writer that adores the possibilities of his partnership with John and the brilliant life he would have lead in the creative world. The title of this fic is from that lovely song, ‘Grow Old With Me’. You may have heard of it. Thank you for reading! If you happen to be on tumblr, come over to thisbirdhadflownx and say hello!

_ “John would have emerged from the mass of the population as a man to reckon with. He may not have been a singer or a guitarist… but he would most certainly have been a Something. You cannot contain a talent like this.” _ \- Brian Epstein

  
  


**Liverpool, 1961**

The water has a rhythm not unlike a dull and heavy heartbeat.The swell of each wave will slap against the framework holding up the dock with a thwacking sound that has grated against John Lennon’s ears for almost a year now. He can hear it when he crawls into bed at night. He can hear it in the beer that sloshes about in his glass at the pub down the street. He can taste the salt every time he licks over his lips, feel it ingrained in his skin no matter how long he stands under the hot spray of a shower. The grit and grime still coating him somehow despite the harsh scrubbing at his skin.  The sluggish pulse of the water, all murky and greyish, lulls him into a daze. He’s leaning on the pier, fingers interlocked in front of him with his unwavering stare fixed on the faint scrape of ashy black over his wrist. Stuart had pressed his thumb over a stick of charcoal and stamped John that morning with a sheepish smile and a packed bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Child prodigy Stu-fucking-Sutcliffe,” John exhaled a shaky laugh into the collar of Stuart’s jacket as they hugged goodbye at the bus station, swarms of weary looking travellers shuffling around them. 

“I’ll see you soon, alright? ‘M not deserting you, mate,” Stuart reassured him, but his glittering eyes said different. John had huffed and made bitter remarks when he had first told him he had gotten a scholarship in Paris, and he had almost unravelled entirely when Stuart insisted that he wasn’t abandoning him.  _ What a fucking joke _ . But there was no time for that sort of cruelty as he stood and waved Stuart off as the bus groaned to a start. His lanky figure hanging halfway out the window as he called out another round of goodbyes, all that frost that had enveloped his heart and raged within him now gone slack and damp, making way for a profound sense of loss. 

Bitterness smoulders in the pit of his chest and the all the resentment he had been whirling in since he started this fucking job has his jaw clenched in a grind that’ll start to ache soon enough. He scrapes his thumbnail against the mark, wondering what sort of mark he’d leave on someone he was going to bail on. Cyn immediately springs into mind and he hates that. Hates himself. 

“Lennon! Ye goin’ t’ jus’ stand there or do your fucking job? I’m not paying ye to wank off!” a voice, gruff and booming, calls out to him and John doesn’t even flinch. He just huffs a sour laugh, paying no mind to anything but the collapse of his building frustration. In a glorious moment of revelation, possibly of biblical proportions, he turns on the heels of his rubber boots and grins wickedly. 

“Ye couldn’t afford my rate, anyhow!” he quips back and marches forward, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. 

The older man glares at him, all ruddy cheeks and grey eyes, “Always joking about, aye? Fucking hell, Len- Hey! Where are you off to?!”

“To the pub, need a drink,” John brushes past him, making a point to plow his shoulder into the side of his boss, “Quittin’ time, an’ all tha’” 

“Quitting time?!” he scoffs, exasperated.

“It’s my time now, Dick. I’ll send ye a postcard!” the wind whips around him, cold and sharp, though he hardly cares. 

“You daft fucking twat!! Don’t let me catch ye crawling back here when yer dead broke!” 

With a manic laugh and clumsy footing, John races across the road and narrowly misses a truck rolling along at a snail's pace. He shouts gleefully when the driver rolls down the window and curses at him with violent gestures, practically skipping along the pavement as he rushes to the closest decent pub. He ought to celebrate this before common sense can catch him.

-

He pushes himself up against the door of the Gambier Terrace flat, all drowsy limbs and fuzzy fingertips. Not able to navigate the door handle in his condition, he growls a string of slurred expletives, finally giving in and knocking a loose fist against the door so that it rattles the frame. 

“Stuuu,” he calls out, imitating a wolf’s howl as he slumps over, pressing half of his face into the wood panelled door, “Open the fucking door! I don’t have fleas, I swear.”

Before he can register the fact that the neighbours are angrily shushing him from their windows and cultivate the appropriate response, he manages to twist the key and unlock the door.

“Even the fleas won’t have ya,” he imitates a typical Sutcliffe response as he squints against the dark. When he flicks on the lamp in the living room, the space around him washes over in honey-warm hues and it immediately induces a sleepy flutter of his lashes. 

_ Oh, right. Stu’s gone... _

His muscles feel like thick jelly as he attempts to steer himself along the creaking floorboards with one palm flat against the wall, the other hand stretched out in front of his face. Lucidity is slipping, the dark water from the docks gushing through the cracks - he can just see it. When he makes it to his room he falls rather gracelessly onto the mattress, face down. The pale gold that he feels swirling low in his stomach is drawing him closer and closer to sleep. His mind is nothing but a caramel haze, drifting slowly, fading as his eyelids droop over. Though, the absence of a record playing softly and a frenzied art student painting well into ungodly hours of the morning stirs him a little. He gropes around for the blanket, everything too heavy and too much of an effort, tugging it up over his body. 

As his mind sinks and stews in ebony lethargy, so too does the remaining scrap of hope he has for himself. 

-

The food runs out the same morning the postcard arrives in the mail. 

_ Johnny!  _

_ Hoping you’ll visit soon. Postcards alone won’t do us justice!  _

_ All the best. Miss you already. _

_ Stu _

John doesn’t know whether he wants to tear it to shreds or keep it under his pillow. 

The flat is a right mess, though it had always been that way. But it seems unbalanced now that Stuart’s belongings have been stripped from their usual places. The easel in the corner, the canvases propped up against the walls and all the little bits and pieces that John didn’t realise he’d ever miss. All he had left behind was a tattered shirt he used as a paint rag and most of his record collection. John shuffles through them throughout the day, sitting by the window and smoking the last of the cigarettes he had swiped from Pete last week. 

Cyn is clattering about in the kitchen as she cleans up after him. Bless her. Centuries from now, historians will be scratching their heads trying to figure out why she’s stuck with him as long as she has, he thinks. He’s not any closer to the divine answer then they would be.

“You should find a new flatmate before the rent is due again, save yourself the stress,” she suggests, soapy suds splashing over her forearms as she scrubs at a coffee-stained mug.

“Stu was the only one left that could stand living with me,” John replies, curled up by the opened window with the very last cigarette hanging from his thin lips.

Cynthia chuckles, “Cut from the same filthy cloth, you two.”

John stabs the butt of the ciggie into a smoking ashtray by his ankle, “Doesn’t matter now, though, does it? He’s up and left me.”

A beat of silence, “We’ll go visit him soon. Make a proper trip of it.”

John hums, irritation beginning to prickle up his spine at the incessant noise, at his own stupid thoughts. His stomach is twisting in ravenous pain but he hardly cares, more concerned about the fucking noise that comes with having another person around him. He swings his legs over to plant his feet on the floor and pads over to the kitchen, watching his girlfriend wipe down the bench he leans against. 

“Reckon I should ‘ave followed him,” he states with a controlled expression, testing. 

Cynthia’s rhythm slows to a halt, a sadness flickering over her features when she turns to face John, “Would that make you happy?”

John bites down on the inner flesh of his cheek, “Might do.”

He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, teeth scraping against his bottom lip and watches her reaction. She nods as if she understands,  _ but how could she? _ Half the time she knows him better than anyone else, even Stuart, and yet there are times where he feels so far from her. Like he’s being dragged down by his ankles into the fiery cracks of the earth and she’s up above floating on a fucking cloud. 

A stoic anger is nipping at his tongue, teasing cruelty out of him. 

“Might go for it anyway,” he feels a simmering  _ something  _ curling around him as he pushes out one last blow, “Not much for me here, anyroad.”

A swoop of heavy remorse has his eyes diverting to his socked feet, though his peripheral vision gives him a fair indication of the crestfallen look Cyn has just before she reaches for her bag. He feels like shite for it, the sour rustling of guilt behind his ribs as he watches her wordlessly walk to the door.

“Take care of yourself, John,” she gives him one last look, pleaful for his own sake, and it feels like a punch to the gut. 

-

He has nothing in his system but a cold piece of crumbed fish, a handful of chips and a whole lot of beer as he walks along the pavement. It’s been a week since he spoke to Cyn, and his head just feels like it’s full of dust, of stupidity and fucking nothing. No job, no hope. Mimi would wrangle the truth out of him soon enough and probably have him out to dry for not bothering to keep his life in some sort of order. But art is the only thing he wants to do, the only thing he can. The only chance he has at some kind of fulfilment. It fucking hurts that he feels closer to death than he does to some kind of life. 

Faceless figures brush past him as he walks, preferring to keep his destination vague and buried deep underneath his awareness. The rain-slick streets glimmer under lamplight. He keeps his brow low and his hands in his pockets, expression grim as he feels. The night air is chilled and damp, seeping through the layers of fabric he’s wearing.  _ Curiosity killed the cat,  _ he muses _ , but satisfaction brought it back.  _

There’s a burst of music as a trio of men exit a bar, cackling drunkenly. They’re sailors, John observes as he slows to a stop, noting the building they’ve exited has no windows to peer through. The sailors grip each other to keep themselves steady as they disappear into the navy-violet night. A crackling of heat flashes low in his belly as he leans against the wall of the establishment, nerves electric and pulsing, the only outlet for it being an anxious tapping of his boot against the concrete. 

An eruption of noise and light once again upsets the low hum of peace when the door swings open. John licks over his lips and keeps his eyes on the ground. The miserable soaked earth beneath his feet and the starless sky above do nothing to dull the white hot tension holding him together. Two brunette men with soft features glance at him with detached curiosity as they pass by, the heels of their boots clicking along the pavement as John scratches at the skin next to his thumbnail, a choked feeling now tightening around his throat. Sobriety is creeping up on him, giving a whole new wave of nerves more room to have his heart racing. The phantom whisper of curiosity keeps him on edge, wanting to claw at his skin. He doesn’t want to go back to that empty flat with all those blank pieces of paper and scribbled out lines of awful poetry. He’ll go mad if he has to endure another night without the sounds of Stuart painting in the next room. If he has to sit with himself alone for another goddamn minute. 

A car rounds the corner and moves steady and slow along the road, the rumbling of the engine making John’s heart hammer. The tires let out a whine as the vehicle stops at the side of the street just across from him. The dark window rolls down and a man, calm and curious, peers out at him. They watch each other for a stretched out moment of stillness. The cold that had bathed his skin vanishes, a rattling of thunder bursting in his chest. A heat licks up his core, shocking his system. The man steps out his car, eyes flickering back and forth between John and the door to the bar as he smooths a hand over his sweater. The vehicle is familiar, so is the stranger. He runs the record store that John favours - some posh Jewish bloke. 

Desire strikes like a match and bursts alight before he can conjure up the willpower to clamp the lid down shut.

“Evening,” he greets the gentleman, hoping the croak of his voice doesn’t give his nerves away.

“Evening,” the man stops and regards him quietly, “Don’t suppose you have a lighter?” 

John smiles a little at that, and despite the slight tremble of his hands he manages to fish out his lighter, “Don’t suppose you have a fag to spare?”

The man chuckles and pats down his pockets in a way that makes that back of John’s neck prickle.

“I do, in fact. How fortunate,” he steps forward and offers John his choice of the opened box of smokes. He plucks one as he flicks the lighter open, orange sparks snapping up until a steady flame emerges. After he lights his own the man takes initiative and tilts the end of his cigarette until it begins to smoke and curl. His lips are dusky rose and John can’t keep himself from intently watching, feeling a surge of arousal. The man turns and leans against the wall next to John, shoulders inches apart as they suck on smoke in silence. The nerves are spreading like cold honey through his chest, he can barely breathe through it. His new companion seems so unaffected, confidently expelling streams of smoke up above towards the darkened trees that sulk along the opposite side of the road.

A flush of embarrassment has John almost wanting to give up just before the man clears his throat with a soft cough and asks, “Are you waiting for someone?”

John considers his reply for a split moment, “No. Just wanted a drink.”

A pause, “Just a drink?”

John notes the tangerine end of his smoke shivering, his fingers losing feeling, “Dunno.”

The man hums in acknowledgement, and there seems to be a nervousness that comes over him all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just John getting out of his own head for the first time, but he now notices how stiff and rigid the stranger’s posture is now. 

“Nice car,” is the only thing he can think to say, words being juiced out of him by his own anxiety. He kicks at the sodden leaves by his shoes, taking another long and slow drag and conjures up the nerve to look at the man. He looks older, wiser, more burdened than John does. He’s proper and polite, speaks the way Mimi loves. His coat would be worth more than the young artist’s rent. John could hate him, easily. But there’s something there, bouncing between their figures in the low light. Has him on the edge of a cliff, toeing the line. Quick, cautious glances starting to linger in a way that tells John he should just get it over with.

“If yer planning to toss me off in the alleyway, you better get to it before my dick freezes over,” he drops his smoke onto the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his boot, grinding it with all his weight. He refuses to look anywhere but at the gutter, at the shards of beer bottle glass that glimmer as he tilts his head.

“I’m-,” he steps back, but doesn’t leave. His smoke sits between his long fingers, his wrist a little limp in the very same way the boys at school would have had him beaten for. 

“Or did ye just want a nice chat?” John mutters, panic starting to pierce through his casual facade. He’s done something wrong, perhaps.  _ Didn’t read the fucking handbook _ . 

“We could chat,” he hurries and steps forward, knuckles brushing over John’s forearm, “I have much better liquor at my flat, if you would like to join me there?”

John purses his lips and nods, “Yeah. Something to warm me up.”

-

His name is Brian, and his flat is something out of an upper-middle class dream. Such a far cry from the dingy Gambier flat and its smoke-stained ceilings and crumbling furniture. 

The pair enter the lounge and Brian starts to reach over to the small bar on the left side of the large room. John grabs his arm and pulls him back so that they are standing toe to toe. His fingers brush over the cold face of the older man’s watch. He shivers and retracts his hand. There are words bubbling up, face flushing with it, but he can’t push through it. Brian’s eyes searching for an answer for a moment before he rests his own hand over John’s. Their movements towards the couch are almost in slow motion. 

He goes brainless with it all. The unbuckling of Brian’s belt, the silent understanding in the way they don’t kiss on the mouth - just everywhere else. The gentle hands in his hair, his rough palms on Brian’s back. He’s aching, has been since he slid into the front seat of that damn car. He thinks of the silver glow of the water when the sun hits it in Blackpool during one of those dreamy mornings his Mum would whisk him along to. This is what that feels like. That impossible hot feeling he’s been chasing. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn. His hair has fallen in front of his eyes and sweat is beading across his forehead, down his neck. They don’t dare break the contact they have, not for a single second. 

There’s a painting above the fireplace, and he imagines that it’s one of Stu’s abstracts. Swirling scarlet and flashes of pure white, like lightning. That’s how it feels right now.

Brian murmurs something that sounds like a plea, and John’s soul echoes it a thousandfold. 

-

He’s drawn out of sleep, fuzzy-headed and heavy, by the daylight burning into his eyes. He’s sprawled out on a couch, a blanket slung over his torso. His boots, jeans and jacket are crumbled on the floor by the coffee table where a half-empty bottle of wine sits besides a neat stack of books. Rubbing the bleariness from his eyes, he sits himself up and winces at the headache that begins to take a harsh grip around his skull. Flashes of last night, impressions saturated in alcohol and glimmers of intimacy sink through into lucid awareness. 

He starts to collect his things, pulling up his jeans over his legs just as footsteps come ticking down the hall. 

“Ah,” Brian emerges, immaculately dressed, “Good timing. I’ll be leaving for work shortly.”

The words hit him hard and he’s not entirely sure why. It must show on his face because Brian pauses and softens a little. 

“Would you like me to call a car for you?” he brushes a hand over his tie. 

John squares his shoulders before shrugging on his jacket, replying gruffly, “Ta, but I’ll be fine. Very considerate…”

He wants to tack on something cold, a snarky joke, but can’t conjure up anything besides a strange feeling of displacement. He’s been flung into the unknown and the idea of suddenly being alone and going back home is nerve-wracking. 

“I hope to see you again, John,” Brian says earnestly. John wants to be sick. 

“You might do, nicking records from your shop,” he half-jokes, zipping up his fly as he makes his way towards the hall, “You’ll let me get away with it though, I’m friends with the manager aren’t I?”

Brian’s expression hardens, stepping into John’s path and holding out a hand, “I understand. Just allow me to get an… adequate payment for your  _ discretion _ . Alright?”

John blinks, a little stunned, “Payment?” 

Brian walks briskly out of the room, “I wouldn’t want any unfortunate rumours to spread.”

Laced in the silence between them as Brian fishes out cash from his wallet is burning guilt and the inability for him to voice a protest about the misunderstanding. Brian holds out a thick wad of cash, like offering a dog a bloody treat, but his eyes are gravely serious. John snatches the money from his hand with a quick snap, wordless as he saunters ahead towards the front door. The money burns in his hand, and when he steps into the sluggish-grey morning light he feels eyes pinned into him. Strangers sniffing out his sins on his clothes. He wants to burrow back through time and experience last night again as it was - without it feeling like a bloody transaction. The two of them intertwined like real lovers. It felt like a camera lens focusing. 

He turns, one hand gripping the doorframe as he looks at Brian once more, “You always pay the boys this handsomely?” 

Brian arches his brow, “I’m not-”

“Just the ones who look like they’d be trouble?” he presses. 

“I don’t think you’re trouble,” he replies, but it’s a lie, John can tell. 

“Well,” John softens his voice slightly, “I hope you’re not always such a bad judge of character, Brian. You’ll be broke faster than I’ll be after I raid the art supplies store with my new fortune, ta.”

He should have been more cruel, he thinks to himself, but he doesn’t have the mind for that now. Just wants to take his fistful of cash and let himself ruminate over being cast aside so easily after something so pivotal. Have a proper brooding session over a pint, perhaps. 

“You’re an artist?” Brian steps closer, eyes darting out over John’s shoulder at the houses that line the street. Feeling exposed, John steps inside again and rests his back against the door. 

“Art school drop-out, as it were. I left to get a real job, but it’s all I want to do, so I ought to do something about it.” 

“I can understand that,” Brian lowers his eyes, looking the shyest John has seen him yet, “I attended RADA, hoping to become an actor. I wasn’t the best student, despite my ambition. I often wonder…”

He can feel empathy blooming blue inside his chest, a fluttering of true affection. 

“Two bent artists?” he chuckles, “What a pair we make.”

That makes Brian smile, eyes gleaming with kindness as he reaches out, fingertips bumping into John’s sleeve before he swiftly retracts. John isn’t quick enough to reassure him, to tell him it’s ok to touch. That he liked it last night. That he doesn’t think he’d be able to ever stop thinking about how much he liked it. Maybe he won’t ever be strong enough to push that strange desire aside again. To keep it in the corner, in the stuffing of his mattress, in the double meanings of his poetry.

“If we should see each other again,” Brian begins, extracting a business card from inside his jacket, “I’d like to see some of your work. I miss being around creative people.”

John takes the card, pinching the corner and reading over Brian’s name. It feels bolder, more thrilling than any scrap piece of paper a girl has scrawled her number on and coyly handed over to him in the past. He thinks about calling Cyn for the first time on the phone, pressing his forehead into the wall while his heart thundered in his ears because of how significant it felt. He doesn’t think he could ever be brave enough to dial this number, but oh God, does he want to.

“Well, you sure know how to defuse a bomb,” John shoves it into his jacket pocket, giving the man one last look before walking away. There’s a mix of emotion driving his heart to thump with newfound vigour. He doesn’t want to sort through them, not now. He’d be much happier just to flood his system with beer and blur out the bad and bring the good to light.

The sunbeams that break through those soaked darkened clouds above the city warm his face as he crosses the road. He wonders if, maybe, this is the start of a downward spiral into something ugly. Or maybe the pace of his steps indicates last night was the  _ best  _ thing that could have happened. That perhaps he’s on the cusp of that sparkling life he’s always dreamed about. His perspective shifts, changes colour and shines a little brighter. He could whistle a tune, but most of all, he wants to draw.

-

The flat is glowing with lamplight while the dark honey hue of the late afternoon sky continues to deepen. The coffee table is covered in pieces of paper, bottles of ink and small paint brushes - the result of an entire week spent working. He looks over his work from his perch on the arm of the couch, thinks about all the art school teachers lecturing and demanding things of him he’d never be able to produce, and he feels a sense of freedom. In the blur of the past week, drawing and writing and pouring onto paper what has been simmering for so long, he found a version of himself he liked. The artist. The poet. The sensitive writer. He posts Stuart a letter celebrating his revelation, omitting the minor detail of his night with Epstein.  It still feels like a dream he hasn’t entirely woken from, drifting in and out of reality. But he still has Brian’s card to anchor him, corners crinkled inwards and stained with little flecks of dark ink from all of his fidgeting with it throughout the days. He thinks it over, his inebriated brain guiding his clumsy feet all the way to the infamous streets in town and how he didn’t hate it - Brian’s hands on him. The curiosity that had been creeping since the hormonal eruption of his early teenage years may not have been  _ just  _ curiosity. He knows about married men that cruise up and down those streets, the guys in the navy with girlfriends back home that can’t scratch that itch. And maybe he’s a bit like that, maybe he likes it both ways. But is that his future? Stalking up and down the streets and waiting for a car to pull up next to him so he can get that elusive kind of release? Will that fit with the sensible middle class life he’s  _ supposed  _ to strive and work himself to death for?

Why should he be so scared of straying from the life he doesn’t want? Why should the  _ world  _ be so scared? He looks over his work once more, stretching out the cramp in his hand. He wants this, that’s all he knows. So he’ll chase it, he decides, he knows what he is and what he wants to be. An artist. And he knows how to get there. 

It feels momentous to pick up the telephone and dial the number, to breathe in and out with his heart in his throat and take the first step towards the light. 

-

**London, 1963**

There is music playing softly underneath the hum of the chatter in the gallery. John is standing by his featured artwork, a series of three ink works presented in one long frame, and trying to keep the nerves from bursting the seams of his expressionless exterior. He’s donning a collarless jacket that Brian had insisted was stylish, buttoned up tight around his neck much to his irritation. There are potential customers gliding by each work, peering over their glasses and attempting to decipher the cartoonish style and absurd wordplay. He wants to hide away, retreat from the bitterness rising up his throat at the prospect of failure. He hates that it stings as much as it does, that he can barely look up from the glass of wine he’s holding just for something to do. Brian is flitting from one visitor to the next, putting on his English charm to ensure that  _ something  _ is sold tonight. The anxious throbbing of his pulse points is getting to be too much, and just when he thinks he has to step outside and have a smoke, an unassuming middle aged couple approach his main piece with curious eyes. Their brows are furrowed and the lines in their faces indicate deep confusion, but interested nonetheless. John could laugh, but there is something about all this silence that has him too far on the edge. Just the clinking of ice in drinks and the soft clicking of heels on the polished floor. The blues records that John insisted were played are still too quiet, and he’s itching to turn up the volume on the player in the corner of the room and ignore Brian’s supposed wisdom. 

The lady leans into her husband’s side and murmurs, “What do you think?” 

“I think Mr Epstein must have lost a bet,” the husband scoffs, and they both snicker together as they pass by John. He glances down at the wine in his glass, watches how the liquid quivers in his shaky grip of the glass, and grits his teeth. 

Keeping a veil of indifference, he stalks towards the record player and twists up the volume gradually and leaves through the arched opening towards the hall before Brian can catch him and protest. He can barely decipher whether it is anger or fear.  _ What’s the difference?  _ he thinks bitterly as he turns the corner and brushes past a dark haired man with a guitar case strapped to his back. It registers a few moments afterwards, so when he looks over his shoulder to catch another glimpse of the stranger he half expects him to have disappeared already. But he lingers there, reading over the card propped up on an easel displaying the name of the exhibit:  _ John Lennon presents _ :  _ Artist Sick Temperament. _

He must feel John’s eyes on him, because he turns and regards him with casual interest, nodding towards the entry to the exhibit, “How’d you find it?” 

John stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs, “Ah, well, ye know. Good art apparently only comes from other rich people when you’re a snob with a fur coat and a gold watch.”

The man smiles and nods thoughtfully, “Well, I have neither of those, so maybe I think otherwise.” 

John’s stare falls into a loop between the stranger’s doe eyes and the quirk of his lips as he speaks. He’s wearing a crisp white jacket with a carnation tucked into the pocket, contrasting the swoop of his black hair. His long dark lashes sweep when he blinks in that slow way John has only ever seen on cinema screens.

“Maybe I’d appreciate that,” John replies, tossing a self conscious glance over towards his name on the sign. He wants to scratch it off with his own fingernails. 

“Are you the artist?” the man asks, perking up.

“That’s up for debate, apparently,” John forces a grin, but the humour might not reach his eyes, he’s not sure. His focus might be on the fizzy feeling he’s getting from having this attractive stranger focusing on him. 

“Don’t think so, not with all that inside. That’s some really great work, y’know,” he sounds so earnest and pleasant, and John can’t really wrap his head around it properly at first. 

“Yeah?” he purses his lips, keeping a genuine smile at bay at the risk of looking so soft. 

“Absolutely! I came back in ‘cause I wanted to remember the name. Thought of buying something, actually. Don’t have much to spend, though, maybe one of the smaller ones would be alright...” 

It’s like his soul can take a shy step out from the shadows now, smiling as he responds, “Yer not puttin’ me on, are ye?”

He places a pale hand over his chest, over his heart, and promises with a grin, “Never.”

The man looks younger than John but with all the calm confidence of someone sure of himself. He extends a hand for John to shake, warm and soft to touch. His fingertips are calloused and his grip is firm and secure. 

“Could point out the ones ye like, see how much I can steal off of ye,” John suggests, smirking a little. 

He chuckles, “Sounds fab.”

Stepping back into the exhibit with what feels like armour to protect him from his own insecurity, he signals over a slightly flustered looking Brian with a wave of his hand. 

“Got ourselves a customer,” John pats the man over the shoulder, “I’m sure you’ll suck all the marrow out of the bone, so to speak.”

Brian runs a hand over the smooth fabric of his suit jacket and gives an embarrassed chuckle, “Well, I’m glad you’ve chosen to invest in this talented up-and-coming artist, sir.”

Paul shakes his hand with an amused smile, “Paul McCartney.”

John files the name away, feels the importance as it seeps deep in his memory. 

Brian gestures around the room with a grand wave of his arm, “Is there any piece you enjoy in particular?”

Paul pulls back his bottom lip in self conscious thought, eyes darting around the room, “Yeah, I suppose that Elvis one is my favourite.”

He points to an ink and watercolour John had done of an Elvis-like figure on stage, radiating red and gold with his guitar strings buzzing, hands reaching out from the borders towards him. John sucks in a breath, pride now influencing his posture. 

“Marvellous,” Brian beams, inspecting the work with a quick sweep of his eyes, “Name your price and we can negotiate.”

Paul reaches up to fumble with the guitar case strap across his chest, casting a timid glance around the room, “How much do these sort of things go for? ‘Cause I don’t think-”

John steps in quickly, noting the slight blush over Paul’s cheeks, “Don’t go selling your soul now, just spend what you think it’s worth.” 

His eyes glimmer when he turns to face him, and something in John’s chest clenches tight. A fondness already blooming for him. 

“Seven pounds would be alright,” Paul gives Brian a shy smile, “For me, at least.”

The remaining gallery visitors are hovering around them with curiosity barely hidden in the way they lean in to eavesdrop on their conversation. Murmuring nipping at the back of his neck doesn’t bother him so much, too glad about this first sale of the night to care. 

Brian ushers John closer, “A similar piece sold for 12 last week. Are you sure?”

“For that one? Course I am. Poor bloke is probably handing over half of his fortune. All these other squares won’t even give me eye contact.” 

The worry in Brian’s face softens into gentle consideration and soon he is guiding Paul over to the corner of the room where the transaction can be finalised. John stays behind, pleased and elated. It makes perfect sense, to have his art attract people like Paul, and not just the pretentious bastards that have always looked down on him anyway. 

“Good music, by the way,” Paul’s voice rouses him from his dreamy stance, “Not the twinkling piano kind that usually plays at these sort of things.”

John smiles, “Proper art connoisseur, are you?” 

Paul grins, tilting his head, “Obviously. Though I’m usually the guy in the corner  _ playing  _ the twinkling piano. All those classics from the 40s and such, this crowd love ‘em.”

“Should have hired you,” John nudges him lightly, “Would have actually sold some of this shite.”

“Hey, none of that,” Paul frowns, humour glinting in his eyes, “I’ve invested in you now apparently, you’ve got to keep going so I can sell it for a fortune later on.”

John smiles playfully, “Suppose I owe ye that much.”

Paul rocks back and forth on his heels, fidgeting with the guitar strap again with slender fingers that hold John’s attention for a beat too long. He feels a glittery fluttering under Paul’s eyes, has to look away before he starts blushing like a bird. 

“Your friend over there mentioned you live here, but that’s a Liverpool accent for sure. When did you come over?” Paul inquires casually. 

“Start of ‘62. Brian had gotten a painting I’d done into some exhibition so I moved over with that money. Have to scrub out my mersey roots somewhat, ye know, to really make it here.”

Paul nods, “I’ve only been here a few months myself.”

“And you walk around with that hunchback looking for gigs?” John quips, tapping a loose fist on the case. 

“Well, that might have been how it started. Playing rock n roll at clubs. But I’ve, uh, gotten lucky recently. Recording an album of my own, at the moment,” he says, “And then I go home and make sure to ring the Nortre Dame bells.”

John chuckles, thoroughly impressed, “Working like a dog just to spend your cash on my scribbles? You’re daft, aren’t ye?” 

He shrugs, clearly suppressing a smile, “I have that right, don’t I?”

The artist licks over his lip, liking how the light hits Paul just so, has the slickness in his hair shine and the hue of his jacket glow brightly. Likes how the smirk curling up the corner of his mouth has him looking like the perfect sin. 

“Maybe I should shout ye a drink. If you’re pissed it’ll soften the blow when you realise the mistake you’ve made.”

There’s nowhere to hide, white walls and lights buzzing above their heads and bathing them in clinical light. He doesn’t have his cap to shield his eyes or a beer in hand to sip at, just a friendly request and his heart knocking against his ribs in an unsteady rhythm. 

“Suppose you should, it’s only fair,” Paul says with a pleasant hum. He looks over John’s shoulder, eyes washing over in muted concern, “How long ‘til you’ve finished up here?”

“Ah, Brian can sort out all this himself, usually does,” John gives an unconcerned wave of his hand, noting how Brian’s theatrical hand gestures have made a home in his subconscious. 

They burst through the doors of the building and into the December cold, muttering under their breaths as the wind whips up against them. He’s momentarily mesmerized by Paul’s long legs, the slight bounce in his step that has his guitar case awkwardly slapping against his back every few steps. Still, he’s got enough charm and light about him to look effortless and cool despite it. 

Paul leads him to a pub with warm lighting and Ray Charles records playing at an acceptable volume. It’s a relief to step into the mildly chaotic beery haze, to carry their pints over to a booth at the back and just feel the atmosphere warm his skin. His ankle knocks into Paul’s under the table as he shifts over and they both smile at each other. Paul gives a quick kitten lick over the foam that had spilled over the rim of the glass and onto his thumb and he feels a slight burst of heat at the sight. Can’t really help it, Paul is becoming more and more of a thrill to look at now that all the nerves from the gallery are fading behind him. He finds that there’s a softness about how Paul looks, it sort of reminds him of Elvis - before he sold out, that is. Lean and soft all at once. 

“What’s a rock-star-to-be doing buying art, anyway?” he asks over the lip of his glass, “Shouldn’t let strangers talk ye into such things.”

Paul shrugs and looks off to his side with a smile, “ Just thought I’d celebrate finishing up recording the album.”

“On the road to fame and fortune,” John chirps.

Paul smirks behind another sip of his drink, “That’s the plan. It doesn’t get released ‘til next year, though.”

He looks so boyishly happy John can’t help but glitter with joy too, “Get you! Elvis’ uglier little brother getting some for himself, good on ye!” 

“Well, if I’m not much to look at I hope people can better concentrate on the music,” he replies swiftly, “That’s the important bit.”

_ Christ _ , John thinks, ‘ _ not much to look at’ _ . He scoffs and takes a sip just so he doesn’t give himself away entirely.

“Used to have a band of my own back in ol’ Liddypool,” John smiles down into his glass, “Couldn’t really get into it after a while. Just wanted to do me own stuff, not the same covers over and over.”

Paul arches a brow, “You wrote your own songs?”

That kindles a strange mix of fondness and shame, thinking back to nights spent scratching in poetry in battered notebooks. Sat across from his mum with the banjo cradled in his arms. Having to hide those parts of himself. 

“One or two, yeah,” John drums his fingers on the dewy glass, “I dunno, I think it ended up being a phase, playing music. That teenage fantasy of being famous. Being on stage was alright but I’d keep returning to art. True love an’ all that.” 

The amber lighting seems to have soaked through his skin, flushing him warm and cosy in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. The air around them is all humid and smells like dried fruit and smoke. He likes it, wonders how he’d try and capture it. Oils on canvas? Poetry scribbled down on notepaper? Or maybe just a photograph of Paul sitting across from him, bathed in buttery light and nodding his head along to the beat of the music playing.

“Well,” Paul begins while giving John a once over with a long sweep of his eyes, “You seem to be doing well, well enough to have your own showing.”

“It’s a start.”

And oh god, John’s chest swells as he watches those eyes raking over him like that. The alcohol is blurring the lines he drew up for himself because crossing them would be too dangerous. But another drink comes along and he sucks that down too, breath catching in his throat whenever Paul bites into the plushness of his bottom lip as he contemplates a worthy reply. And shit, he hadn’t felt this drawn to a man since that night he drunkenly stumbled after Brian at some shitty London arty socialite gathering this past September. He’d dragged him into the spare bedroom, leaving behind a lady with sharp teeth and silver jewellery dripping over chest. She hadn’t understood him, anyway. Not the way Brian did.

He quizzes Paul about his record collection, his thoughts on The Shadows and Fats Domino and Carl Perkins, which pubs he used to gig at. It feels strange to talk about Liverpool. He has his weekly calls to Mimi but this is different. It feels as though he really is speaking about a former home now, plucking bits and pieces of memories from his subconscious he figured he had left behind. 

“You got a girl back home?” John inquires, tipping back the rest of his drink to douse whatever he exposes in the process of asking the question. 

Paul shrugs with quick shake of his head, “Not since I got here. Didn’t want that distance, not going to put the poor girl through that.”

“Bet you’ve left plenty of broken hearts in your wake with a face like that,” John says, finger dragging over the droplets on the table surface to create a long swipe - like a brushstroke. 

“A face like Elvis’ uglier brother?” Paul gives a coy smile before his attention glides over as a cluster of people brush past their table, shaking their foundations.

“We make do in Liverpool,” John retorts with a chuckle, “Got to work with what we got… until we fuck off to London, that is.”

Paul pulls himself closer and sags over the table a little to lift up his drink, his carnation drooping in his pocket, “And cheers to that.”

When their glasses clink, when their eyes meet, it sends a vibration up through his arm and curling down his spine.  _ Fuck _ , his mind is soaked in alcohol and that muffled sense of danger and he can barely keep his eyes from their half drooped state when he settles too deep into it. 

“It took a while to really get into the whole business,” Paul explains, “Gave up a few times, in fact. My Dad never let me hear the end of it, how I was throwing my life away and I needed to get a proper job. The usual.”

“Ah, all that shit.”

“Yep. Got tired of it, going back and forth. Decided to move here and stick with it just to see if I could do it, give myself a year or two.”

“Good on ye,” John nods. Paul leans back in his seat, the blush of his cheeks more visible when he shifts.

He presses the heels of his palms over his eyes, groaning something about needing to piss, and then he’s slipping out of their booth and over to the gents room. Their empty glasses sit and glimmer by his elbow, and there is almost a temptation to carve his name into the wood of the table like he’d done on the bar of the Ye Cracke while Cyn and Stu exchanged back and forth about some lecturer from art school. His heartbeats feel fuzzy, mind drifting slowly like froth on a pint. He presses his fingertip onto the sticky wood and draws out his name.

_ J O H N _

He used to think that maybe that was the only sort of mark he could ever leave, something scratched forcibly enough to cut through layers. He thought that the only way Cyn could love him was if he was everything to her because he was desperately trying to  _ be  _ everything. The fact that he could dissipate into far off memories so easily frightens him. And now he wonders if he ever really changed his mind about that. Wonders if he’d ever pierce into London as easily as a sharp point into worn down furniture, like he had dreamed of when he was a lad.  _ J O H N.  _

“You’re like a tomcat pissing on a wall to mark its territory,” Paul comments, pulling John up and out of his strange brooding, fingernail ceasing its digging into the table.

“Thought that’s what you were doing just now.”

Paul snorts, “Those walls are plenty marked up already. Not sure what exactly  _ with  _ for the most part.” 

John lulls his head to the side with a grin, “Best not to think about it. Just lift up yer leg and let ‘em know who’s in charge.”

“Might get a cramp that way,” Paul rests his chin on his fist, thumb lazily scratching at the side of his jaw.

“That’s a shame,” John’s tongue darts over the back of his teeth, “It’s good to be flexible.” 

Paul snickers, John biting back his smirk and hoping the rose in his cheeks is lost in this lighting. Being so impish, skirting on the edge of a knife that could cut him to pieces, it’s never been fun like this. 

“Oh, is it?” Paul speaks up through a giggle with his arms now folded in front of him, “I’ll work on my stretches.”

His mind flickers through obscene images instantly, heat rushing through his sluggishly intoxicated system. He probes further.

“No need, I’m sure chicks like it when the guy just lies there all stiff like and does nothing,” he jokes.

“Might be why we’re both single,” Paul stretches out his limbs, John’s pant leg fluttering when his shoe brushes the fabric of his trousers. 

“You assume I’m single?” John gives a half-challenging look, mock offence. 

“You’re not?” Paul blinks, the shoulders of his jacket seem broader now. John kind of wants to run his hands over them. 

“Well, I don’t usually speak to the papers about my private affairs,” John drawls and drums his fingertips, “But I can tell you in confidence, Mr McCartney, that I’m engaged in a scandalous affair with Her Majesty. She’s waiting for me back home, in fact.” 

Paul suppresses his smile, “Oh goodness, how can you even bear to be without her right now?”

John shrugs coyly, “I marked her up before I left, can’t have those tomcats prowling about.”

“Filthy,” Paul laughs, ducking his head, “And by the way, that’s Sir McCartney to you.”

“Ah, well… ‘spose that’d make me Lord Lennon.”

Paul smirks, “His Majesty?” 

“I’m His Majesty amongst acquaintances, John amongst mates and Winston amongst sworn enemies” 

Paul seems to drag out the pause for effect when he looks John over and says, “Well, for now at least, I’m quite happy with John.”

John’s heart stutters over a few beats, “You still have to curtsy for me, you know.”

Paul gives a cheshire cat grin, “Another reason to start doing my stretches.”

-

They’re walking through the streets, elbow to elbow because they will drunkenly tip over onto the pavement otherwise, and laughing. John will glance over, note the rosey blush of Paul’s cheeks, how his eyelids droop over like rose petals and how pretty he is under lamplight as he fishes for coins out of his pockets so they can call a car.

“I’m telling ya, you’re eating up everything I have,” Paul sighs through amusement, “Your mate won’t mind dropping me home, will he?” 

John snorts, “He’ll shine your shoes if you just say you’re thinking of buying another piece from me, poor sod.”

Paul passes the spare change over to him, fingers dragging slow over his palm as he pulls away, “Could do with that, actually. I scuffed mine back there when you tumbled into that bin.”

“Don’t let the blind lead you anywhere,” John laughs, fingers numb as he dials Brian’s number, “My glasses are those awful kind, hate wearing ‘em.”

“That explains your art,” Paul snickers when John turns to swat his arm with a sneer just as Brian picks up. 

“Aye, Bri. Got myself and my new friend here stuck out in the cold, are you nearby? Think we’re just down the street from the gallery.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Brian’s voice responds. 

“Good on ye. You don’t mind dropping Paul home, do ye?” John pulls a face at his companion, who has his arms crossed over his chest as he bounces on his feet to keep warm, smiling. 

“No trouble at all. See you soon.” 

“Got to warn you, son,” John hangs up the phone. He huffs a breath into his hands and rubs them together, “Brian is a fucking nightmare of a driver. Can’t say I’m much better, but he’s the one with a car and a license, you see.”

“Trust me to get in a car accident before my big break,” Paul chuckles, “Is he as blind as you are?”

John shrugs, tucking his hands into the soft material of his coat pockets, “No, actually. Don’t know what it is. Can’t have it all, I ‘spose.”

He looks over their surroundings, from the cars rolling by with headlights cutting through the dreary dark to the clouds hanging low above their heads. It’s the first real moment of peace his mind has allowed him in hours now but he’s comfortable with it. Paul is still bright and somewhat alert, head tilting up to watch the sky. 

“You going home for Christmas?” Paul’s gaze travels back to him slowly, and his eyes seem to be made up of what the clouds are covering, dark sky with glittering stars dotted over. 

“For a day or two. Just to see my Aunt Mimi ‘cause she still hasn’t forgiven me for missing out last year.” 

Paul smiles, “Yeah. My Da’ and my brother would understand, but it would be strange to be all alone here.”

John’s mind is fuzzy and quiet, imagining Paul ever being alone. Doesn’t seem like the type to ever run out of people flocking over to be near him, too much charm. Too pretty. And then his attention catches on to the absent mention of a mother and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Brian is Jewish, that’s half the reason I didn’t go last year,” he says softly, not sure why his mouth is allowing such a strange thing to fall out, “He gets all… I don’t know what you’d call it. But I’ll see it in his face whenever someone hands him a Christmas present, even if he’s trying not to show it.”

He’s not sure what he’s saying exactly, feels stupid for talking about it and forcing Paul to listen, especially when things were going so well. But Paul just nods like he understands. 

“Might feel like a bit of an outsider,” he says simply and a breeze hits them with frosty cruelty. It does nothing to cast out the warmth that pools in his chest every time Paul speaks. 

“Do you have siblings?” Paul speaks again, half startling John. His mind conjures up hazy images of his step-siblings, the girls giggling and twirling about in the living room while records played. His mother kneeling down and scooping them up in her arms, John sitting on the couch with a knot in his stomach but a broad genuine smile on his face.

“Half siblings,” he answers after a pause, “Just the top half of ‘em.”

Paul rolls his eyes back up to the clouds, “Oh dear.”

“Can’t have myself a perfect family straight from a can, that’s too easy,” he mutters, wishing he had a cigarette to suck on to fill himself with a warmth that the cold air can’t eat away at as they stand there, hands tucked under their armpits. They don’t speak for half a minute, just concentrating on casting out the icy feeling seeping deeper and deeper into their flesh. All that alcohol back at the bar had warmed him pink and now he’s out here turning blue. His brain may as well be sloshing about in the pints he inhaled so enthusiastically, because he doesn’t have the sense to direct his eyes away from Paul. Keeps looking him up and down with that gluggy-drunk kind of feeling making his bones heavy. 

The sound of Brian’s car approaching registers somewhere far off but he’s hesitant to turn around. Tries to think about what he knows about Paul but his sloppy mind can’t produce a single thing except a soothing feeling of familiarity coated in something shiny and new. He tumbles into the back of the vehicle and only half listens to Paul compliment Brian on his car, choosing to concentrate on how he sits his guitar case between his knees. He slumps in his seat with his lip bitten down and listens to Paul’s casual chatter. How pleasant and melodic he sounds when he talks about the mundane. The vehicle growls as they turn a sharp corner suddenly and John just gives Paul a look, _ I told you _ , and they both have to hold back schoolboy giggling. Seeing the world blur in the window behind Paul’s profile is quite the sight. It feels appropriate when they slow to a stop just as Paul looks over at him again. 

“Thanks for the lift, fellas. Real pleasure meeting you both,” he claps a hand on the back of Brian’s seat and turns over to John to shake his hand. 

He’s got shadows to hide his features, to blot out the nerves at the prospect of losing this warm connection. He’d ask Paul to scribble his number onto his arm, promise to call him up for another session at a pub, but the words won’t budge from the heat in his throat. He doesn’t want to expose the desire cradled within his chest. He presses his lips and bids Paul a good night and thanks him in such a formal way his own voice sounds so foreign and meek. It drums up another kind of anxiety as Paul opens the door and shuffles out, turning to pull the bulky guitar case out.

“Thanks again! Might see you around.”

John’s stomach plummets, “Hope so… I’ll be hearing your record playing on the radio soon enough, I’m sure.”

Paul lowers his head and laughs bashfully, “That’d be great. Released the first single a couple of days ago, in fact.” 

“I’ll keep an ear out for it,” John tugs on his earlobe and Paul laughs.

They don’t exchange goodbyes so when the door smacks shut and the engine rumbles up to a start again it feels like he’s standing on the edge of something. All he really can think to acknowledge is the blush warming his face and the strange fluttery excitement bursting through the blurry silence of his mind.

“John?” Brian’s voice cuts through.

“Hm?” John curls up against the window, eyelids drooping as the city flickers past.

“Paul has done an album?”

“Yeah, coming out next year or something. Has good taste, too,” John exhales foggy against the glass. 

“That’s wonderful,” Brian hums, “You’re both putting Liverpool on the map. I must call NEMS and ask about it.”

John closes his eyes, “You’ve got his number, right?”

“I do.” 

“I might want to call him up next year,” John’s voice crackles with sleepiness, “Great bloke.”

“I was just thinking about the New Years Eve gathering - the chap with the Whitechapel Gallery connections is hosting. I believe he is yet to hire entertainment.”

John frowns, “Think he’s a bit above that.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise… I just assumed -” 

“Offer it, though, might as well give him a chance to impress those-”

“Who is his manager?” 

John’s eyes open a little, peering out the window, “He didn’t say. Thinking of taking on another client, are you?”

He can hear Brian’s smile when he replies, “I’m a monogamous manager.” 

John snorts, “I wouldn’t hold you back like that.”

“I don’t even know what he sounds like,” Brian chuckles and adds, “Nothing wrong with monogamy.” 

“That’s up for debate. Business doesn’t have those family values,” John responds, running a hand over his eyes. 

“I think of this as something far greater than business,” Brian muses, voice going all dreamy and wistful, “I truly believe in it.”

The car halts to a stop, jolting them both half out of their seats. They’ve parked outside John’s flat, he realises, and shuffles over to open the car door. 

“By the way,” Brian’s voice stops him just as the door opens a crack, cold seeping through the gap, “You sold nine more pieces tonight. And have the interest of many more buyers. Congratulations, John.”

The grin stretches slow across his face, the dawning of pride burning through the bleak that he seems to always carry around with him. 

“I suppose that’ll do,” he comments with elation colouring his tone, “Treat yourself to a midnight cruise, Bri. You deserve it.”

He shuts the door before Brian can protest or laugh him off, smiling with his chin tilted high and hands in his pockets as he strolls to the door. 

-

Christmas passes by in a flurry of warm cider and crumpled gift wrap. Green, gold and red twinkling lights draped over railings and Bing Crosby crackling over the radio. It’s Mimi’s cats curled up in his lap and Brian shyly gifting him silver cuff-links with  _ J.L _ engraved in them the day before he leaves for Liverpool. He had sent out cards to Stu and Paul with Christmas themed doodles around the borders of a short generic message. He finds himself wondering about Paul, eyeing the spot in his old room where he’d prop up his mum’s banjo and think back to times where music was his obsession. 

“I do wish you would paint something _decent_ so I could display it,” Mimi comments as she serves dinner, looking bright and pleased about the coat that he had gifted her (with Brian’s help, of course).

“You’ve got my scribbles from when I was eight hanging up,” John scoffs, making a display of scooping a decent amount of roasted vegetables so she doesn’t nag him.

“Well, they’re very good,” Mimi smiles, settling down in her chair across the table, “For an eight year old, that is.”

“Art isn’t  _ just  _ paintings of seascapes and lighthouses, Mimi,” he teases, “Broaden your horizons.”

“They’re already very broad.”

“Well how about you ask Stuart nicely and he’ll send over a Monet or two, will that make you happy?"

“Hm, I rather fancy a Renoir,” she holds her deadpan for a few seconds before John’s giggling cracks her facade. 

After a few days couped up with Mimi he decides to head out for a drink. It’s New Year’s Eve and most people would be at parties or in pubs, and he figures finding another warm body would be an appropriate fix for the tension building in his system. Semi-familiar faces turn and watch him as he goes by, and he can hear their memories ticking and sparking. Their whispers snip at the back of his neck and he plows on through towards the safe haven of a pub. He finds himself looking out for a dark head of hair. 

“John?”

He turns in his seat to face a shy Cynthia, heart stuttering when she gives him a friendly peck on the cheek. Her eyes are kind but he has to work his way through a generous amount of whiskey while they engage in small talk in order to build up the courage to apologise for being such an arse. He could tack on something about wanting to try again, but he knows better than that. He couldn’t stand the thought of dragging her around when he knows his heart isn’t in it like it used to. But man, he adored Cyn,  _ Miss Hoylake _ . She smiles sweetly in that way the makes the crinkles by her eyes appear and waves off his miserable groaning. Her hair is darker now, cropped differently - like the mod girls at the art school. She’s still gorgeous, is the thing. It tears him up a little to think how much better off she is without him. 

She looks at him with something unreadable in her eyes. Something like forgiveness but instinctual wary. He wouldn’t expect anything less, to be honest.

“Got yourself a proper lad now?” he inquires, finger dragging around the lip of his glass. 

“Oh,” Cyn tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, “I do… For a little while now. Are you…?”

His face softens, “Aye, I’m glad to hear it. I mean that. I’m still alone, as it were.”

She looks down shyly and picks the imaginary lint off of her skirt, “London must be exciting. When I first heard you left I thought it was to Paris.”

“To follow Stu?” he watches her posture sink a little inwards. 

“Well, to follow that life,” she says with a small shrug, “I was surprised when someone mentioned London, but I was so happy for you. I’m glad you’ve found your path.” 

She looks up at him and he looks back at his empty glass and mutters, “Was a bit overdue for it, wasn’t I?”

Silence overcomes them, the snappy bursts of laughter of friends gathered around the bar irritate him. He feels strangely out of place here. Maybe that’s progress.

Cyn is watching him like she doesn’t know what to expect. 

“What have they been saying, then?” he asks. Cyn stills, hands folded in her lap. There isn’t a ring around her finger and he finds himself a little relieved by it. He repeats himself, pressing and horribly self conscious. Must be the whiskey corrupting his sensibility. 

“Nothing,” Cyn’s brow furrows, “We’re all so pleased for you.”

John scoffs, “Don’t have to play that role now, Cyn. Just tell me straight.” 

“What role?” she squirms in her seat.

“You know what I mean,” John replies, “What are they saying?”

A beat goes by. And another.

“Why would you want me to tell you those things?” she implores, slightly pained. 

Dull defeat clouds him and he can’t really articulate anything for a long moment. It’s horrible and strange, tension unfurling into a defiant vulnerability. He should know better than to tread carelessly on trigger points, but he can’t help it.

“John,” she warns with a sigh, “I’m not indulging in that nonsense.”

His gaze snaps up to her, sees the discomfort in the strain of keeping her expression neutral, “You didn’t wonder? Didn’t wonder what your estranged boyfriend was doing off in London with a fairy?” 

Her fingers curl around her glass, “No, I didn’t.”

He laughs quietly and squints at her, “Come off it, Cyn, you’re not fooling me.”

She leans back in her seat and folds her arms across her chest, “What is it that you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs, “But it’s shite. He gets me commissions and showings, that’s all. Hardly see him.”

Cyn nods, eyes scanning him sadly, “I didn’t doubt that. You know I wouldn’t-”

“Is your boyfriend here?” he blurts out, sitting up and throwing a casual glance over his shoulder. There’s a small gathering in the corner by the jukebox of guys and girls giggling and murmuring to each other behind their glasses. They burst into slight hysterics when they catch him looking. Anger flares and his fingers curl into fists when he turns back around. 

“He is, somewhere. Might have gone to the loo. We’re going to a friend’s place for the countdown after we finish our drinks here. You can come along if you like?” Cyn purses her lips with that worried look that seems like the most familiar thing about her right now. Another low eruption of cackling smacks against him, he’s clenching his jaw and knocking his knuckles against the table to expel the irritation swirling red hot in all the pressure points in his body. 

Maybe he was listening out for it, that specific word acting as an invitation to erupt. He hears it spat out, the hiss of the ‘F’ sound and the harsh laughter that follows. He springs up and strides up to the group so there is a good few meters between the two parties. A lad with dirty blond hair slicked back smirks wickedly at him. 

“How’s London, John?” is what he chooses to say, the girl on his arm giggling, scandalised, into his shoulder until she looks over and sees John’s expression. He’s seething, eyes dark and fists bunched up at his sides. 

“Is that really what you want to know?” he spits out, taking another step forward and planting his foot hard on the wooden floor. The lad’s friends either step back or scatter towards the bar, nervous tension now heightening and gripping everything. 

“There was one other thing,” the boy tilts his chin up, grinning. John hates him with all the sour venom that rises like bile in his throat at the sight of the smug fucker. _ Hate, hate, hate.  _

The boy pauses for a beat and feigns confidence when he opens his mouth again, “Is your arse sore?”

Barely a moment can pass before John launches and shoves him roughly into the wall and pulls back his fist with the furious intention to land a punch. The lad flinches, turning his face away but John hesitates. Something clicks into place when he sees the fear rattling his bones as John’s grip of a fistful of his shirt tightens. He steps back, hissing a firm warning through gritted teeth. The frenzy of spectators shouting and cheering like a twisted choir takes him right back to his turbulent youth. The bitter, violent John that struck fear into the trembling hearts of anyone who so much as looked at him the wrong way. The John he wore like a mask. What he promised he would leave behind. 

He exits the bar, the bartender growling something unintelligent at him as he storms past. His blood feels hot and his heart is beating in his ears. He’s fighting the temptation to howl like a deranged beast just to scare them further. Frighten them properly like they used to frighten him. 

The door swings open and Cyn rushes over to him, a man following behind and calling her name. John adjusts his jacket over his shoulders, straightens out his shirt and mutters something about being alright. Her eyes are misty and he feels guilt seep in cold over his heart. How many times has he does this to her? The man drapes his arm around Cyn’s shoulders to pull her close and there’s a sharp shock of loneliness at the sight of it. John murmurs an apology, giving her hand a squeeze and turns to stalk off before either of them can extract anything more out of him. 

He walks and walks until he tires himself out so bad he’s barely lucid at all when he slinks back to Mimi’s place and falls flat in his old bed. There’s a crinkling sound when he shifts over, a searching hand runs over the mattress side until his fingertips brush against something that isn’t soft fabric. It’s a magazine, folded back to a page with a barely clothed blonde model posing with her hands tucked between her thighs, pouting cherry red lips. He gives a hysterical sort of laugh and flings it onto the floor. 

He knows what he is, has done since he was a lad. He was sick of agonising over it by the time he left for London. Sick of meandering drunkenly along the certain streets where the sailors linger outside clubs and watch him from under the brims of their caps. Sick of fleeing when it all became too real and someone would call out to him all honey-voiced. He liked it too much, being coaxed, liked his resolve slowly breaking under the weight of yearning and lust. 

Brian would take him to clubs with an empathetic understanding of his nerves along with the ease and charm to make John slink into the background and just be able to watch. To observe men holding each other close and tight, kissing like proper romantics and nothing like those lewd and cruel characters people in Liverpool would draw up in their gossip. He’s more at home with the artists and the poets in London than he ever was with those bastards. And yet, there’s still something truly terrifying about being laughed at, being mocked and cast away - terrifying enough to want to retreat back to what is expected of him. The safe and secure. The horribly boring and unfulfilling. Half of himself. A dock worker with a chip on his shoulder and notebooks of forgotten poems. 

It doesn’t matter now, because he’s going to be great. 

The New Year starts just as he falls asleep.

**1964**

Mimi scolds him at breakfast when his skull is aching and his ears are ringing, then later sends him off out the door laughing while she keeps her amusement hidden as he waves goodbye at the gate. That’s the way it is between them, and he’s glad for it. Liverpool has morphed into something else these past few years, but Mimi will always remain too stubborn to budge and that’s somewhat of a comfort. It’s a relief to head back to London though, to go back to his flat and play his records and read the paper.

He shuffles through his mail on the couch with his legs folded underneath him. There’s a letter from Stuart, his artful handwriting scrawled in slanted lines across two pages, and he slips on his glasses to read through it.

_ “... I have found a secondary passion for film. A group of us have started cutting one of our own. It’s tedious to put music to it but I think it’ll turn out great …” _

_ “...The food is marvellous here, though I’m still terribly thin…” _

_ “... The Parisian guys love American rock and roll, so you are often in my thoughts …”  _

_ “... I’m looking forward to my break, to seeing you and all that you’ve been up to in London when I finally make it there. Haven’t had much time for anything but work lately. I’m a man possessed by ambition and paint fumes.”  _

He sets the letter aside, catching a glimpse of another envelope obscured behind an obnoxious bill that he’ll no doubt forget to pay later on. He tears it open with a butter knife, unfolding a Christmas card to find neat writing with a name signed at the bottom that makes John’s lips twitch into a smile. 

_ “Dear John,  _

_ Thank you for your card. Wishing you a Merry Crimble and a Happy New Year! Your drawing is framed but not hung up on the wall. Don’t know where to put it just yet.  _ _   
_ _ Would be great to catch up soon. I might see you at the new year’s party that Mr Epstein phoned me up about, but just in case, all the best for the new year.  _

_ Kind regards,  _

_ Paul McCartney.” _

John runs his hand through his hair, aware of the excitement thrumming in his fingertips. Thinks idly about Paul wondering about him at the party as he strolls over to the telephone and dials Brian’s number. He had forgotten about the party, and now he’s sorry he missed it. Brian picks up after a few rings.

“Happy Jew year, Brian,” he says wryly, “I trust you’re thoroughly hung over.” 

A muffled groan crackles in his ear, “Well I’m certainly feeling it  _ now _ . Are you still in Liverpool?”

“Cripes, no. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. Mimi says hello.”

“Oh, that’s lovely of her.”

“How was the party?” John licks his lip, toe nudging the corner of the rug under the coffee table. The television is on low and quiet, but it helps to have something to look at to keep casual about everything.

“Ah, well it was quite alright. Interesting crowd, rather bohemian. You would have enjoyed the music, of course. Very talented, that Paul McCartney.”

John’s fingers fumble with the cord, “Should have been there...”

“Are you alright?” Brian asks, and John can so easily envision the worried expression he’s wearing right now. 

He rubs the back of his neck, “I’m fine. Do I have anything on this week?”

A thoughtful pause passes, “No, not this week, but I’ve secured an interview for next Thursday with a rather prominent-”

“Alright, just let me know the day before,” he interrupts, “Your folks still here?”

“They’re heading back tomorrow,” Brian huffs a weak laugh, “My mother insisted she found the perfect woman for me, again.”

John feels the undercurrent of sadness in his tone, knows Brian well enough to recognise it whether he likes it or not. It’s not as though he isn’t amused by his mother, he’ll joke about it with John on occasions of mild intoxication. John can’t force out a crude joke now no matter how hard he tries to get the cogs in his mind spinning. All he can think to say are miserable things he shouldn’t burden his friend with. There’s nothing either of them can do about the talk about them in Liverpool, he just has to live with it - the bitterness of being an outcast and a joke. He wants to ask Brian how he coped with it back then, but holds his tongue. 

“John?” 

“I’m here,” he looks back over at the letters scattered over the couch.

“I didn’t mean to-” a soft sigh, “I hope your Christmas was enjoyable.” 

“It was grand,” he mutters.

“Paul did ask that I pass on his best wishes for the new year.”

“Did he?” John feels his stomach curl a little anxiously, feeling sparks of curiosity at the very mention of Paul’s name. He looks once again at the christmas card on the couch with a peachy warmth encasing his heart.

He calls up Paul the next day and the day after that a small blue car rolls into his driveway, a lean figure stepping out of the driver’s seat making John’s heart thump as he peers through the kitchen curtains. 

-

“They need a cover for the album and I want you to do it,” Paul tells him over fish and chips at the kitchen table. The afternoon sun streams in through the window as they hunch over the meal Paul had thoughtfully picked up on his way over. The oil soaked paper and the salt on his fingers remind John of home. 

“Thought you just said you had your pictures taken for it,” John says through a mouthful of crumbed fish.

“Yeah, I did. And they still need to use ‘em ‘cause they said people need to recognise me-”

“They want girls to go mad over your pretty face,” John corrects, sucking the salt off of his thumb. 

“Would you just listen to me?” Paul chuckles, “But it’s a bit, y’know... boring. Just a photo of me and the name of the record. An’ I was thinking about your Elvis drawing and I think it would be really great if you could draw over the photo? Make it interesting, y’see?”

Paul reaches into the bag he had brought along with him and pulls out a large envelope and holds it up in front of John’s face. He wipes down his hands over his pants and takes the envelope to look for himself. 

Paul plucks a chip from the centre of the table and pops it into his mouth, “You could do it on a clear bit of plastic, or something. Dunno how it works, really. But just around the borders there could be something. Feels a bit wrong just havin’ my mug on it.”

When he flips over the photograph his stomach plummets. It’s stunning, a black and white catching Paul’s three quarter profile in a white button up shirt makes him look like a leading man in a film. A proper star. The smile is somewhat shy, the slope of his lashes against his pale skin... 

Paul clears his throat, “Erm, yeah, not the best one of me.”

John’s eyes stay on the photograph. Paul fidgets.

“But it was the only one that seemed a bit different. All the others were face on, me in a suit like the Stones,” he adds. 

“It’s great,” John says quietly, tearing his eyes away to see Paul’s bashful smile, “Might buy myself a copy.”

“You’ll do it though, won’t you?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” John slides the photograph back into the envelope, “Sure, of course I’ll do it.”

Paul smiles, pleased, and leans back in his chair, “Fab.”

“I’ll need to hear it first,” John says, “See what you’ve got.”

Paul quirks an eyebrow, smirking, “You’ve got a record player, ‘aven’t you?” 

He pulls out a vinyl from his bag, encased in plain packaging. John swipes it immediately and leads them to the living room. 

“The first one that plays is the single out at the moment,” Paul sits himself on the arm of the couch, “Number 36 on the charts or something at the moment.” 

“Not bad,” John lowers the needle, “Asked Brian to make some calls. He used to run NEMS, you know. Might be able to bump you up a bit using his magic.”

The record crackles to a start. 

_ Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you _

_ Remember I’ll always be true _

He stays locked in his place, leaning forward and watching the vinyl spin as he listens to the music. His voice is melodic and warm and there is a joy bursting from the seams of every word. It makes sense but he still finds himself surprised at how pleasantly this guy can sing. He gives Paul an impressed look.

“Wrote this at the last second before recording, didn’t think they’d even let me do it,” Paul says, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking his eyes down to his shoes.

“It’s really good,” John tells him, settling down in the armchair.

_ And I’ll send all my loving to you _

“Great guitar,” John adds. 

Paul is smiling, fidgeting with the watch around his wrist, “Wanted a bit more of that sound but the studio wasn’t that keen so I could only sneak in so much.”

“Fuck them,” John mutters, casting a look back to the spinning record as the song ends. The next song starts with a flowery piano bit, the soft backbeat kicking in just as Paul hums his way into the first verse. They stay in the respective spots, listening and nodding along, John making the occasional comment of praise. Paul smiles bashful and bright, inserting little anecdotes about recording and writing. When it’s over, John looks back at the envelope with Paul’s photograph and purses his lips in thought.

“Any bright ideas?” Paul asks with amusement, lifting the needle.

“A few,” John replies, “A couple of dim ones too.”

“Enlighten me,” Paul quips easily, sitting back down on the couch. 

John scratches at his jaw self-consciously, turning his eyes up to the ceiling, “How much time do I have then, boss?”

“I’ll swing by Monday morning for those reports, Mister Lennon,” Paul puts on a gruff voice. 

“Oh sir, yes sir, right on it sir!” John salutes and they both crack up. 

“It’s nerve-wracking, y’know,” Paul sighs, leaning back into the cushions of the couch, hands over his stomach with his fingers interlocked, “There’s so much I want to do now but it all depends on how this record goes in the charts. I’ve got all these songs swimming about in my head all the time and I can’t do anything with them yet.”

John nods dutifully with his eyes scanning Paul’s posture. The neat fold of his cuffs back against his forearms, the crisp and tight fit of his trousers, the wetness of his lower lip from the nervous gnawing of it. He tears his eyes away, getting up to gather paper and pens.

He shoves aside the scattered books and old newspapers on the coffee table to make room, kneeling on the carpet with a pen tucked behind his ear. Paul slips down onto the floor so they are facing each other over the table, taking a pen for himself and watches John start to draw an outline of Paul’s figure as it had been in the photograph. Dark hair, doe eyes, arched brows, lips tugged up into a little smirk. His pen curls to thicken the eyelashes as he thinks of smooth melodies and catchy guitar riffs, pianos twinkling bright and sweet. He plucks his glasses from his pocket, sliding them over his nose without thought until Paul chuckles.

“I thought you said they were awful.”

“They  _ are  _ awful,” John laments, fingers pinching each side of the specs and lifting them up and down.

“You look just fine in them,” Paul smiles and continues to watch John draw. 

“How do ye feel about flowers?” John clears his throat, somewhat shy as he doodles a little carnation on the breast of Paul’s shirt. 

“They’re alright,” Paul hums, watching with his chin perched on his fist. John scribbles a vague pattern around the borders of the page, deep in thought. 

“What about birds?”

“Depends on the kind,” Paul replies, quick as anything, and John grins. 

“The kind that shit on yer car,” he says as he adds a little bird onto Paul’s shoulder.

“How ‘bout an eyepatch and hook as well?” Paul jokes.

“Wouldn’t want to cover up those pretty eyes,” John teases as his pen swirls lightly over the emptiness next to Paul, “Don’t want to make it complicated either.”

He draws up a record player needle propped up on top of Paul’s head and draws in floating music notes into the empty space, Paul makes a noise of approval and points to the spaces in between the notes.

“Should put more flowers in between them, like the one on my shirt,” he suggests, pulling back his hand as John complies.They work together with watercolour paints, filling in the flowers and Paul’s shirt in pale reds and blues. Paul’s record is playing again from the top and John can occasionally chime in with fragments of lyrics he remembers, much to his friend’s delight. Every now and then he will catch a glimpse of Paul with his mouth downturned in concentration and he can imagine all those little musical notes dancing about in his own stomach. The fluttery feeling when his hand accidentally knocks against Paul’s wrist, the shared giggle when they pull back to observe their work. 

“Looks fab,” Paul says cheerfully, “It really does.”

“Owe me a drink for it,” John adjusts his glasses over his nose. 

“What’ve you got?” Paul asks with cheek, standing up and stretching out his spine. 

John’s eyes trail down his figure, “Some beer in the fridge, wine in that cabinet over there.”

Paul strolls over to the kitchen and leaves John alone with the fade out of the current song playing softly. 

_ I’ll be waiting for your kiss _

_ Like dreamers do _

_ Ooh, like dreamers do _

_ Waiting for you _

There’s a swell of pleasant laughter as Paul enters the room again with two beers, “You’ve still got my card from Christmas on the bench.”

John’s face heats up, chuckling a little self consciously as he swipes a bottle from Paul’s hand and looks down at their work again, “Haven’t gotten around to spring cleaning.”

“I see that,” Paul clinks their bottles together, “You know you don’t have to wait  _ ‘til it’s spring _ .”

“Didn’t realise I sent in a letter to Ms Paul’s Housekeeping Column,” John nudges his arm.

“You and thousands of other loyal readers,” Paul tips back his drink. Lips pink and full and wrapped around the bottle’s rim just to send John a further shade of red. He takes a small sip for himself, ignoring undone top button of Paul’s shirt and how the fabric has peeled back like fruit rind to reveal an intriguing portion of the pale skin of his chest. There’s a shine in Paul’s eyes when he glances over again, glossy like magazine paper. 

“ _ Mister postman look and see… is there a letter, a letter for me _ ,” John hums and brings the bottle up to his lips, “Fuck, I don’t remember the words.”

_ “I've been standin' here waitin' Mister Postman, so patiently... for just a card, or just a letter... _ _ saying he's returning home to me, _ ” Paul sings softly. John flushes, wonders how forward he can be now when the push and pull between them is already so perfect. It feels like the string joining two rusted tin cans is wobbling between them and he can’t quite catch just  _ how  _ interested Paul is in their friendship. Or something else. He should be better at reading these things, given all his hungry observation in gay bars and other social gatherings Brian had brought him along to. The subtle quirks and flashes of heat and interest. Maybe Paul is just a bit too arresting to lock onto an interpretation with full confidence. 

“Who’s he?” John asks with all the nerve he can muster, masking his mouth with the beer. 

“ _ My boyfriend, so far away, _ ” Paul continues on, bopping his head along to the last chorus of the song and not looking John in the eye.

“Navy man, is he?” 

Paul snickers, “Well, you know what they say about the navy.”

“I’ve heard some whispers,” John drums his fingers on the bottle, chest flaring up with excitement. It’s raw and vibrating, he can feel the buzz of it in his lungs. In the smile he can’t bite down. It gives him away. 

The last song fizzles out and Paul abruptly turns to lift up the record and slip it back in its case, “I’ll be doing appearances, here and there, y’know. If you ever wanted to come along, you’re welcome to.”

“Front row seats to the Paul McCharmley show?” 

“Oh indeed,” Paul cups his hand around his mouth, “Tickets selling fast!”

“I’ll bet,” John slumps down onto the couch, holding some hope that Paul will join him. The musician instead chooses to inspect the bookcase, some grand find Brian had gifted him when he first moved in. It’s filled up like some sort of kaleidoscope of coloured book spines, slotted in at all angles and positions. Paperbacks and anthologies of prose and poetry, adventures and mysteries, everything that John had collected over the years. Paul’s slender fingers run along the edge of the middle shelf, eyes thoughtfully considering each title with a curious tilt of his head. 

“Much of a reader?” John asks, just to fill up the silence.

“Can’t say I am,” Paul drags his pointer finger up and over a particular book, sliding it out of its place and inspecting the cover, “The Entertainer by John Osborne.”

“Never got ‘round to that one. It’s Brian’s doing, he’s a theatre guy.”

Paul opens the book carefully, letting the pages flutter open, dust swelling up into the air, “Had a phase of that myself, back in the day.”

His lungs are lusting for a cigarette right now, just so he can sit and smoke and watch Paul contently as he files through the collection. The homely light cascades over Paul’s features gently. The slope of his nose, the slight pout of concentration, the sharp dip of his waist all hold John’s attention for long cosy moments at a time. 

“Any recommendations for a poor illiterate like myself?” 

John snorts, “Got some newspaper comics you might like.”

Paul scoffs, “Steady on, I’m just a beginner here.”

John slides up off the couch and approaches the bookcase, shoulder to shoulder with Paul as he scans through the titles, “What do you like?”

“I’m up for anything,” Paul rocks back and forth happily on his heels, arm pressing into John’s side as he does so. 

“This one is great,” John perks up and slips Catch 22 out from underneath a pile on the top shelf, several paperbacks following out and over the edge along with it. Paul catches them in his arms, laughing as he peers over John’s shoulder to inspect the cover.

“What’s it about?” he says, awkwardly shifting the books in his hands.

“Read it for yourself, you cheat.”

He sees it a split second too late. It’s as if he’s watching Paul’s thumb brush over the thorn of a rose when he brings a thin novel to the top of his pile of fallen books.  _ A Room in Chelsea Square.  _ He snatches it from Paul’s hands, less of a panicked movement and more just instinct. Like holding out your hands to catch falling books, he assumes. Though, he blushes when he realises his haste has raised Paul’s brow and he struggles to stutter out an explanation. 

“Hold this, I’ll put them all back,” he mumbles and swaps the selected novel for the armful of books and starts to shelve them in one by one as Paul steps back. 

“Got tea? Feel like a cuppa,” he asks, stifling a yawn that may or may not be real.

“Yeah, help yourself,” John pushes the last book into the remaining open slot, eyes catching on a photograph poking out between pages of Charlie Chaplin’s autobiography, a makeshift bookmark. He pinches the corner and pulls it out, the sepia glazed daydream of long ago. His mother in a summer dress, her smile subtle but bright all the same. Him, just a boy, sitting on her lap with his knee high socks and and shy eyes. It takes him by surprise, how a dim photograph can stir up such bright memories. The soft fabric of her dress, the copper colour of her hair, the smell of summer air and the yellowing grass underneath his bulky school shoes. The sound of his name blanketed in her voice. His throat tightens, gingerly smoothing the folded corner of the photograph with his thumb. 

The kettle whistles just as he tucks the photo back in between two heavy set books and settles down the longing with a mental wash of feigned nonchalance. Paul brings out two mugs while carefully navigating the various papers on the floor.

“Ta,” he takes a steaming cup for himself, blinking the mist out of his eyes. 

“So, how long were you in that band for? The Quarry Guys or summat?”

They sit down on the couch, knees knocking as they settle, “The Quarry Men. The best skiffle group for miles, if I say so myself. Lasted from ‘56 to about ‘59. Got to be a drag and my mate wasn’t game to join in anyway, convinced me to stick with art.”

“What did you play?”

John’s heart shudders behind his ribs, “Banjo… Me Mam taught me how to play. Just simple stuff.”

Paul hums, carefully blowing over the lip of his mug, “Still got it? The banjo, I mean.”

“Yeah, somewhere,” John shrugs. In the top shelf of his closet, to be exact. Though it hadn’t been touched since he first got here. 

“I probably get the musical thing from my parents, too,” Paul says quietly.

Something shifts, the ache being held so tight in his chest softens a little as he stands up and takes the photograph in his hands again, shuffling in back next to Paul and showing him.

“That’s her,” John can almost see motion in the picture, the two of them blinking against the sun. 

Paul doesn’t touch the photo, but leans close and really looks at it, eyes soft and considerate. Both of his hands are holding the mug tight over his lap, his breathing soft and barely audible. The heat radiating from his body making John feel relaxed enough to press a little closer. 

“That’s…” Paul starts, but can’t seem to articulate anything more. His eyes don’t leave the photo, either, and so John holds it out for a moment longer before carefully retracting his hand and propping up the photo against an empty glass on the accent table beside the couch. 

“She was great,” the words slip out without the careful consideration he usually adopts when it comes to this. Even when he’s drunk and mouthing off, he can’t mention her. Not slumped against Pete Shotton’s shoulder, nor during those late night chats with Stu. 

“Mums usually are,” Paul comments, leaning back into the cushions with his eyes fixed on his tea, “Music is good, y’know, for all that.”

Embarrassment floods through the cracks in his armour, his own softness burning him, and John quickly darts his eyes away and parrots with a touch of mocking, “ _ All that _ .” 

Paul looks over at him, somewhat alarmed, but John keeps his features stiff and neutral as he sips his tea. There’s an awkward hesitation before Paul speaks again.

“I like that painting over there.”

John glances up to the canvas hanging up over the television, “A Sutcliffe original, that is. That artsy mate I just mentioned. He’s studying in Paris at the mo’, so he sent that over. Probably cost a fortune to post.”

“That’s about thirty stamps, right there,” Paul chuckles, “Haven’t seen much abstract stuff at those galleries I play at lately.”

“I think it’s an old one. I might have even helped him with it. But anyroad, he does it all, talented fucker.”

“One of those, eh?” 

“Should’ve seen ‘im at school. Teacher’s pet doesn’t cover it.”

“And I take it you weren’t?” Paul smirks.

John laughs, “Aye, the three-legged runt they put down, more like.”

“You sure they were saying ‘runt’?” Paul snickers as John kicks lightly at his shin.

“Coming from the alter boy!” John teases, “Worked out ok, didn’t it? Don’t have to slave away at some shitty job.”

“How did this all come about, anyway?” Paul asks, “Not many artists get their chance, so I’m told.”

“Brian was bored one day, decided to get into the art world. Liked my work enough to be my agent. You can switch careers around like that when you’re rich.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Don’t really have a back-up plan if this all goes down the bog, though,” he drains the last of the tea, “I’m sure  _ he  _ does. He mentioned managing bullfighters in Spain once.”

“Haven’t heard that one before,” Paul shifts his posture, “He really likes that?”

John crinkles his nose, “He loves it. Can’t see why, but he’s a special one. I couldn’t look half the time when he brought me along to one of ‘em. Too violent.”

“You’ve been to Spain?”

“A week in Barcelona,” John stretches out his legs, remembering how he and Brain had laid out in the sand under the sun, the surf licking up to their ankles. The humid nights and the shy flirtation between Brian and a handsome matador at a club. How his stomach curled with searing jealousy at the bitter thought of Brian abandoning him already for a man in a glittery jacket. 

“Don’t know how I’d fair under that much sun,” Paul puts his mug aside slowly, “Shrivel up to a crisp, probably.”

Fuzzy images of Paul in swim shorts stretched out in a beach chair with his skin shimmering with lotion spark off like firecrackers in his head. He dares to look over, and with his glasses on now he can see the freckles lightly dusted over Paul’s nose and spilling across his cheeks. The hazel hue of his eyes, a mosaic of earthy tones that John can’t bring himself to look away from for a dangerous few seconds. Somewhere in that bookcase is the story of Icarus, and John can practically feel the wax melting on his skin. The two of them are sitting closer than he had realised, staring at each other. The sun is burning, burning, burning. Every feathered notion of indifference slips away before he can help it. He’s falling through the clouds of those eyes, longing to crash into the plush pink of Paul’s lips. His breathing is slow and short, mouth slightly agape. Everything else is just a warm haze.

Paul breaks the moment when the couch dips where John’s weight is leaning into it, “Would you like to see me play tomorrow night?”

The slit of window exposed between drawn curtains reveals that the sun has sunk low behind the trees and the streetlamps have started to flicker on like fireflies.The buzz of the moment fades, the gap between them expanding as John shuffles back. 

“You’ve got a gig?”

Paul nods and adjusts his watch around his wrist, “Playing my own stuff, but I throw in a Little Richard number or two to keep everyone happy.” 

“Well, you’ve twisted my arm now, haven’t you?”

Paul grins, “You’re probably sick of hearing my sodding voice after today.”

“No,” John protests a tad too quickly and flushes a little, “Not at all.”

“Well,” Paul rests his hands over his knees, “That’s alright then.”

He can’t shake off the desire to kiss him on the mouth. There’s a sticky kind of gravitational pull luring him closer every time he lets his guard down. That weightlessness he feels swell up when they stare at each other for a second too long. And he might go mad if Paul gives him something more than that to go on. Something more than a playful smile or a flirtatious remark. It’s as if he’s been suspended in mid air.

Paul picks up Catch 22 and tucks it under his arm, humming as he scoops up the empty glasses and mugs to take to the kitchen. 

“How fancy is the place?” John picks at his jeans, “Because I’ve got my drainies and a leather jacket ready if needed.”

Paul laughs brightly from the hallway, “I’d love to see that.” 

John grins to himself, “Well, what are you wearing?”

“A suit,” Paul is shrugging on his coat when John steps into the hall, “But that’s just me. It’s just a normal club in SoHo.”

“I can manage that,” John crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back on the wall and watches Paul knot a scarf around his neck. 

“It’s at the  Marquee Club,” Paul says, “I go on stage at seven.”

“Right, ok,” John unlocks the door and steps aside to let Paul through, “I’ll be there.”

Paul stops halfway through the door and turns on his heels, “You can keep that record, by the way. Thanks for doing this, it’s really going to turn out great.”

John’s heart thumps against his ribs at the earnesty, the brightness in his eyes when he speaks. The door shuts with a soft click and John knows he’s in trouble now. 

-

The session band begin to filter onto the lit stage just when John starts to get antsy. He’s sitting at a table by himself in his pinstripe cream jacket and charcoal sweater that sits a little too tight around his torso. He’s got his cap on with the brim tipped low enough to cover his eyes from people who pass by. Girls in short skirts and guys in turtlenecks and shaggy mops of hair. The sodding place doesn’t have a liquor license, so there’s no drink to act as decent prop to occupy him and shadow his lack of company. He had been vaguely aware of the Marquee Club for the rhythm and blues acts, and had probably popped in for a few shows during drunken nights seeking out decent music in SoHo. Seemed to be buzzing with a whole new kind of energy now, people excitedly chatting and shifting around the small space. 

When Paul steps onto the stage, John’s posture immediately relaxes and his face brightens. He’s stepped out with his guitar strapped over his front, giving a cheery wave to the audience as they whistle and call out his name. He adjusts the microphone stand with easy motions, leaning in to greet the audience. 

“One two three four!” the band jump into the first number, Good Golly Miss Molly. 

People hoot and holler, bopping along and twisting as Paul stomps his foot in time, shaking his head. He’s smiling in a way that would probably ache, glowing brightly as he nods his head. John stands up, shifting closer to the front. A girl on his right has her hands in her hair as she dances, singing along. The mass of people move about together but all eyes stay on Paul. He’s got them all dancing like puppets with the strings of his guitar played with stunning expertise. His long legs kick out as the guitar solo starts, exchanging back and forth with the drummer before he swings back around and sings with all his heart into the mic.

With each number that passes by John is further and further entranced. It’s hypnotic and exhilarating to just watch the bounce of his figure, those long fingers fluttering over the frets with ease. John hasn’t had a drink all day but there’s this hot sloppy feeling rising up and twisting in his core that has him imagining Paul playing  _ him  _ like that guitar. It’s like the earth is tilting, the sun climbing up his throat when Paul meets his eyes and grins so hard his voice almost softens along with it. 

“This next song is a bit slower,” Paul huffs into the mic and runs the back of his hand over his forehead, “It’s a love song, so if you have someone to hold onto, now is a good time to do that.”

The first few guitar notes make John’s arms prickle with goosebumps. Paul’s eyes go soft and starry as he plucks at the strings.

_ She gives me everything _

_ And tenderly _

_ The kiss my lover brings _

_ She brings to me _

_ And I love her _

His heart clenches, breath being squeezed out of him when Paul’s eyes trail over the crowd and land on him once again. His flesh shudders, seeing the sweat trail down the side of Paul’s neck. The milky glow of his skin under spotlight. Like moonlight. He might as well be a sailor hearing a siren call, though he doesn’t think he would even mind Paul dragging him down by the collar. Even if he were to drown. 

-

John takes a drag of his cigarette as he leans against the wall outside the club just as Paul finally emerges, guitar case in hand and cheeks flushed pink.

“Give us smoke,” he requests, voice slightly hoarse. John’s toes curl as he fishes out the last cigarette from his pocket. 

“While you were entertaining your groupies, I’ve been out here in the cold, and now you take my last ciggie,” John pouts with mock sorrow as Paul lights up his fag.

“Stealing from a starving artist, am I?” Paul clicks his tongue as he exhales a blue cloud of smoke.

“Nah,” John replies, “Managed to trick this poor sod into buying something of mine a few weeks ago. I’m set for a while.”

“Whoever he is, he sounds handsome.”

“He’s alright,” John shrugs, casting a look up to the purple clouds sitting fat and dark across the sky and obscuring the moon. He knows he can’t be so languid and coy forever, eventually he’ll trip over and cross the line. But scaring Paul away like a skittish cat is starting to become a heavier gamble than he’s ever considered taking. To stoke the early flames of infatuation and risk dousing such a promising heat is the tightrope he’s walking.

“You’re not going to tell me how it was?” Paul asks, sounding slightly disappointed.

“Narcissistic git,” John mutters, making him cackle, “Of course you were bloody brilliant.”

“You mean it?” Paul bites down on his lip, like he’s trying to hide his smile, and brings his smoke back to his mouth.

“Wouldn’t say it otherwise.”

He allows himself the small indulgence of a shy glance at Paul’s profile as they listen to the quiet sizzle of their cigarettes as people pass by. 

“I wasn’t entertaining groupies, by the way,” Paul sounds amused, “Just chatting to people I ought to be friends with.”

“A cunning businessman,” John expels smoke so it’s carried along with the breeze, “Sound ‘ave known.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, boy,” Paul drawls like a character from a Western. 

“Wouldn’t mind an education,” the cigarette in the corner of his mouth bobs as he speaks.

Paul’s laughter comes out as a short burst, as if it surprised him, and John grins despite the implications causing slight embarrassment to bloom over the high spots of his cheeks. He watches the ribbons of smoke curl up from his own cigarette in an effort to keep his eyes from locking onto Paul for the rest of the goddamn night. What is more addictive, he wonders, nicotine or Paul McCartney? He finds the answer when the ciggie starts to burn down far enough to sting his fingers. He taps out the ash and takes one last drag before tossing it to the ground. Somehow, he feels Paul’s eyes on him and it’s a physical struggle to keep his neck from lolling to the side to look back. The self-discipline he’s exercising is completely foreign and he’s navigating it so clumsily. It’s miraculous that he’s managed this well without an intoxicated state of being to soften the strain. 

And then Paul speaks.

“Can’t settle after gigs like that,” he lets out a pained sigh, “Feel restless.”

John swallows, coherency too far out of reach when his veins are running this hot and feverish. He’s saved, momentarily, by a trio of girls emerging from the club. They spot Paul within an instant and flock over to him, cooing.

“Paul! You were fantastic!”

“Ah, thank you, ladies,” he tips his head with a smile. John watches the exchange with heated fascination and slight envy. 

“We’re going over to the La Chasse for drinks, want to join us?” the girl in a yellow checkered dress and a thin grey coat makes the offer with a sweet shrug of her shoulders, eyes gleaming. The brunette next to her smiles when she spots John peering at them. He tongues at the sharp point of his canine, unimpressed and a little sour when Paul chuckles good-naturedly and pretends to contemplate his answer. 

“A drink would be nice,” he turns over to John with an arched brow, “Fancy a second act?”

There’s an undertone of vibrant cheek that may have enticed him in another circumstance, but as it were, John isn’t keen on watching birds fawn over his companion for the remainder of the night. 

“Best if I turn in,” he rolls back his shoulders, “You go, enjoy the fruits of your labour.”

Something pierces through the pleasant ease in Paul’s body language, flickering into some kind of concern, “You sure?”

“Aye, very. I’ll send over the final cover sometime next week,” he slips his hands in his coat pockets, “Ladies, enjoy the evening. I’m sure Paul McCartwheel will show you a jolly good time.”

He flashes a soulless grin and walks away. This is going to be more difficult than he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay between chapters, you know how it is. I am so appreciative of the comments and kudos', thank you so much for the support and love!! As always, swing by thisbirdhadflownx on tumblr - I have an inspiration tag for this fic you might like scrolling through. Thank you again and again, enjoy the chapter!

Sunset has the room blushing deep gold from the portion of window the pull-down shades don’t cover. John and Brian are sprawled on the bed, skin rosy and dewy with sweat. The afterglow is gentle, eyes glazed over and mouths still a little raw. Brian is drifting in and out of sleep, turned over on his side with his hair mused. When John stretches out his limbs and cranes his neck, he can see the mural above the bedhead in his peripheral vision. The artwork is of a matador - a dreamy piece filled with blurry splotches of warm tones contrasting the brilliant pale blue of the costume. Brian had commissioned it sometime ago from an artist in Barcelona, which had irritated John. He sulked about it for a week before Brian’s frantic reassurance somewhat settled him. He knows there are other men, this wasn’t a monogamous arrangement. It was hardly an arrangement at all, more like an unuttered promise. Brian would look after him financially, nurture his career and be his guiding light into the gay world of London and all he would have to do is be a friend and, if need be, a lover. The unbalanced nature of such a partnership was never lost on him, though, insecurity still managing to pierce through like solemn black on a pristine white canvas. More often than not, John initiates their intimacy. A needy tug of Brian’s sleeve, a whispered tease in the shell of his ear, a wandering hand sliding over his thigh. That’s all it took, maybe all it would ever take. At least, that’s what John hopes, because attraction fades. Brian’s affections for him can only last so long. He only stays over for a week or so at a time before he sinks too deeply in the lazy comfort. He’ll tick Brian off with his little habits, and vice versa, and then head for the door before he ruins everything. He wants Brian to want him around. It scares him that love can expire. Or whatever it is that Brian feels for him. And he knows perfectly well that a friendship so intense is just a romantic illusion, a fantasy he’ll never be able to keep - Stuart’s abandonment of him was enough proof of that. 

He pulls himself off of the bed with a sigh, wrapping a flimsy robe around his naked body, and steps out into the lounge. A neat stack of posters advertising his upcoming exhibition sit on the dining table, along with scattered envelopes and various other little notes and reminders. His line of vision strays over to the record player where Paul McCartney’s debut album is laid out. His cover has drummed up a considerable amount of attention for him since the record itself managed to crack the UK’s top ten. Paul had been running around doing radio bits and magazine interviews for the last week and tonight was his prime time television debut on Top of the Pops. He had called John up and asked him with all his sweet humility and perky excitement if he would come over to watch the show at his flat. An ache shot up his spine at the thought of seeing him again, perhaps pushing a little further just to see if his infatuation wasn’t totally unrequited. It has been agony to wait, the days dragging slow and heavy over the week. There’s anxious anticipation dripping with each hour, so unbearable he can hardly settle. A strange combination of lax muscles from the release he’s just had in bed and the stirrings of excitement flaring up in his mind as he paces around the apartment to find art supplies. 

He settles at the dining table with the calligraphy set Brian had been gifted and starts to draw out a self portrait, remembering what Stuart had told him about art revealing who you are without being conscious of it. Brian had told him handwriting is the same, that one of the few kind teachers he had at school had pointed in his notebook and told him he was artistic and a gentle soul. He remembers how pleased Brian had looked as he told that story as he signs his name and half-heartedly wonders what sort of things a simple signature could give away about him. 

Brian pads into the room in an open white dress shirt and trousers that he’s fumbling to zip up, “Would you like to join me this evening? There’s some sort of gathering set up by a fellow who has been making a name for himself recently with his gallery, a Mister Robert Fraser. It might be more in line with your style.”

John grunts, “Can’t. Going over to Paul’s place to watch him on the telly.”

“Ah, I forgot that was tonight. Do tell me how it goes,” Brian stands himself in front of the mirror, adjusting his collar, “NEMS is struggling to keep up with demand for his record, actually.”

“I’ll let him know,” John taps the pen on the paper, “Mind if I borrow a shirt? The one I brought over isn’t any good.” 

“Not at all,” Brian hums as John heads back to the bedroom, opening up the closet and flicking through the neatly arranged clothes. There’s a building tension as he swipes one shirt aside after another, trying to envision himself sitting next to Paul on the couch wearing this or that. He can’t make up his mind, feeling a little self conscious when he extracts a deep blue sweater (with flecks of grey upon closer inspection) and struggles to remember if this colour even suits him. 

“Would you care for my advice?” Brian’s voice startles him. He walks in with an amused but not unkind smile and gingerly puts the blue garment back in its place.

“I’m not a doll to dress up,” John retorts, but he’s quiet enough for Brian to know he’s not actually offended. 

He sorts through with feather-light hands, expression soft and thoughtful, “You can never go wrong with black.”

He produces a cashmere black turtleneck on a cushioned hanger and holds it up to John’s frame, nodding to himself. 

His hands run over the soft material, “I’ll look like a mod.”

Brian laughs, “And?”

“Don’t think he was on that team in Liverpool,” John mumbles, stomach clenching at how stupid he sounds. 

“Well,” Brian’s eyes glint with humour, “Opposites attract.”

“Aye now, none of that,” John steps back to search for his trousers, finding them laid out on the carpet in front of the bed, “He’s a mate.”   


“I wasn’t suggesting anything more,” Brian says, obviously amused, and pulls out a charcoal-grey blazer, “What do you think of this over the top?”

“Should be alright,” John says and walks back over to pull the turtleneck over his head, “You don’t think he’s…”

“I don’t know him as well as you do,” Brian watches over as he slips into the blazer, pinching off some lint from the shoulder.

“Takes one to know one,” John mutters, “‘Spose he isn’t one, then.”

“Perhaps,” Brian purses his lips, “But perhaps there is a chance of -” 

“Don’t,” John interjects quickly, adjusting the jacket over his frame, “I’m...I’m not getting me hopes up or anything like that. He’s a good sort. A good friend to have around.”

“Of course,” Brian replies softly. 

He inhales deeply through his nose, allows the air to balloon his chest and dilute the nerves, “Right, well. Best be off.”

“You’re not going to check and see how you look?” Brian frowns, watching him begin to stalk off.

“I’ll lose me nerve if I do,” he exhales a puff of nervous laughter and heads for the door. 

“Don’t do up the buttons on the blazer,” Brian’s voice calls out. 

“I’m not daft,” John says back, quickly undoing the buttons as he steps out through the door. 

-

He shows up at Paul’s doorstep with fifteen minutes until the show starts, with his heart bleating in his ears. He wonders if the dark material sitting snug around his neck makes his head look giant and porcelain pale. The lights are on inside and there is music playing too. Something with a heavy beat and a soulful female voice. The door swings open just when he’s about to knock again, and Paul beams and greets him with a tug at his arm to pull him inside. He’s bright and lively, looking sharp in a slim fitting misty blue pinstripe shirt tucked into his tight trousers. John steps forward, stuttering over some sort of mixture of greetings, but thankfully Paul’s attention is on making sure the door snaps shut correctly.

The first thing his brain processes is the scent of Paul’s cologne, something spicy and sweet, coupled with the smell of his home. It’s clean and nostalgic, like freshly vacuumed carpets and old wooden furniture frames. The second thing he notices are the voices floating in from another room, chatting happily just under the music. 

“Glad you’re here,” Paul claps his hands and rubs them together, “Got drinks in the other room, if you like. Scotch and cokes.” 

Paul turns and leads him into the large living room where a group of people are gathered around the record player and sharing banter excitedly. John’s tongue darts over his lip, shyly taking a glass from a tray on the coffee table, heart jumping up into his throat. Disappointment throbs in his chest as he looks over the other guests, but  _ of course it was never going to be just the two of them, idiot.  _ He takes a swig of his drink, ice cubes bumping up to his lip and avoids eye contact just as Paul rests his hand over John’s shoulder.

“Alright, lads and ladies,” Paul announces in his cheerful host voice, “This here is the fella who designed the cover for the album, John Lennon.”

He lifts up his glass and smiles a little, butterflies swarming about under the spotlight of so many pairs of eyes. They happily greet him and turn their attention back to their previous conversations. 

Paul steps aside, waving over a lean looking young man with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes, “This is my mate, George, from Liverpool. He played on the album, in fact. Might have told you about that.”

“I remember,” John extends his hand towards George, “Behind every great man is a better guitar player, eh?”

Paul scoffs and George cracks a crooked smile, “Aye, but who’s standing behind me?”

John grins, “Might be Paul with a knife when he sees people flocking to your gigs instead if you’re not careful.”

“No need to worry,” George pats his friend’s arm, “The stage is all yours.”

“Think _ I _ best be watching my back for that knife,” Paul jokes, playfully looking over his shoulder. 

“Not a performer myself, anyway,” George explains, “Got a job as the studio handyman thanks to Paul bullying the fellas at the top. Work with all the electrical equipment and play around with the mixing board every now and then.”

“He’s great at it, too,” Paul adds, looking like a proud parent rather than an impressed friend. John finds it funny and stores the image away in case he needs to tease either of them about it later on. They continue with small talk, John taking frequent small sips of his drink.

“Paul! It’s starting!” a lady calls out, and voices start to hush into giggly murmurs and the record is abruptly stopped. 

Everyone shifts in front of the tv, crammed on the couch together or leaning on the armrests or standing by the piano at the bay. John shuffles over to lean against the armchair George managed to slide into before anyone else, and Paul stands on the other side of the room with his arms crossed over his chest and a drink in one hand. The introduction of the show starts, grey and white light flooding over the faces of the guests. John sneaks a look at everyone, wondering what other connections Paul has made in his short time in London. Paul looks nervous, his posture rigid and drawn in, but is doing his best to hide it. Tapping his foot and telling jokes to the couple closest to him. Bowls of peanuts and crackers get passed around, John just waves the offerings away. He’s feeling oddly anxious for Paul, though he wouldn’t have invited everyone along if he had cocked it up entirely. 

When his name is announced and his figure appears on screen an instantaneous squeal of delight bursts from the gathering. 

“Ooh, Paul, you look so cute!” coos one of the girls, and Paul laughs and waves her off, but there’s a lingering smile there hidden behind the glass he’s got raised up to his mouth.

“Very smart,” says another. He can’t disagree with either statement.

The grainy grey texture of the film doesn’t do him justice, but there’s still something heart-wrenchingly stunning about Paul displayed on a television screen like a film star. There are strings of lights dipping into the grooves of the curtain behind him, like shiny pearls. Paul’s voice doesn’t wobble or tremble despite the clear nerves in his eyes that sit tight until he’s made it through the first chorus of ‘Like Dreamers Do’. He remains upbeat and effortless, like he had done performing at the club that night, bopping his head along and casting soulful glances into the camera. The living room pulses along, tapping their toes and nodding their heads along with the music. The tailored suit shows his figure off like a guitar, the sharp curve at the waist catching John’s attention when the camera pulls back for seconds at a time. The focus drifts like a dream while Paul croons the hook with starry eyes. It’s not even until the last thirty seconds of the performance that his eye locks onto the floor of the stage. Flowers line the curved edge, small and dotted along like the doodled border of the album cover. A jolt of delight surges at the sight of it, a smile curling his lips before he can help it. When the last note rings out, everybody cheers. 

“ _ Paul McCartney kicks off his UK tour here in London on the 29th of January. Tickets will be selling out fast, so be sure to hop to it! _ ”

The night continues on with more celebratory drinks and elated chatter, congratulations being awarded to the man of the hour. The group swarms around him, hugs and handshakes being shared while John lingers back and waits. He and George discuss guitars and banjos for a little while before a brunette with a sugar-sweet smile catches his eye and decides he better make a move before the night is over. It leaves John with no choice but to loiter about in the kitchen in search of another drink.

It’s a tiny kitchen, makes the spacious living room look out of place, but there’s a domestic kind of feeling about it as he notices the little things scattered about. The kettle and an open packet of teabags by its side, the fruit bowl with a balanced array of colour, the olive curtains hanging limp and thin by the window where the blinds are shut, the pale yellow post it notes stuck to the fridge with grocery lists and other reminders. He finds a bottle of whiskey, already opened, by the sink and indulges by pouring a sensible amount into his empty glass. 

“That stuff is awful,” the girl George was talking to earlier informs him as she pops into the kitchen to search the fridge, “Consider yourself warned.”

“I’ve had worse,” he shrugs and downs it in one go, suppressing a startled cough from the burn in his throat.

She giggles, “Hope that was worth it.”

She stands upright and presses the fridge door shut with her elbow, now clasping a bottle of wine with both hands. She’s pale and slight, thick dark lashes framing wide amber eyes in the same way Bardot would have them. 

She starts to pour herself a glass, “I’ll regret this in the morning.”

John brushes the back of his hand over his mouth, finally feeling a warm flush of oozy sedation starting to settle into his bones from all the drinks he’s consumed tonight, “Where did George head off to?”

She simpers, “Saying goodbye to Paul, we’re just about to leave.”

“Ah,” he leans up against the counter, “I see.”

“You don’t see anything,” she swats her hand at the air between them and grins, “He’s very sweet.”

“Watch out for those fangs of his, is all I can say,” John teases.

“You’ve got quite the mouth for a man who hasn’t said a word all evening,” she observes with a sly smile, stepping aside to allow George access to the fridge, “So, have you been in the London art scene for long?” 

“I can be a bit of a recluse at times,” John rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t usually mix with the crowd. Feels like water and oil sometimes, so I dunno if you’d even say I’m in  _ the scene _ .”

“You ought to,” she says, “You meet all sorts at those functions.”

“I hate those gossip-fests,” the girl raises a pencilled brow and he rushes to correct himself, “I’m not suggesting that’s what  _ you’re  _ about.”

She smirks, “You better not. Though, unfortunately one has to adapt to that nonsense in those circles to get noticed.”

“You’re too pretty not get noticed,” George says brightly.

“ _ Flirt _ ,” she laughs, swatting George’s arm, “I’m an actress. I’ve only done small parts in plays and a spot of modelling here and there.”

John nods, “How do you know Paul then?”

“Oh, we met through a mutual friend. He’s in the London entertainment world now, we all have to meet at some point.”

“If you’re a pretty actress you have to meet Paul at some point, she means,” George cackles as he ducks out of the room. She turns to follow him, waving goodbye to John.

John plants his glass down next to the sink, “Don’t let him near the garlic.”

She throws back her head and laughs, stepping out and leaving John to ruminate over flashes of Paul with fit actresses with long legs and soft lips. The words spin on a loop as he enters the living room again, plucking Paul from a conversation and sticking his thumb over his shoulder, signalling that it’s time he leaves.

“I’ll walk ye out,” he says.

“Can find the safety exits just fine on me own.”

“Not without those giant specs of yours,” Paul laughs and opens the door.

“I thought they were rather  _ fetching _ ,” John straightens an imaginary tie around his neck.

“Yeah right,” Paul crosses his arms, “You were blushing like a tomato when you put them on.”

John eyes the paved path in front of them, lined with small white flowers that sag into the dark leaves around them, “I wasn’t  _ blushing _ .”

Paul purses his lips, “Alright.”

“I’ll have to borrow your phone, call a car-” John spots a framed piece on the wall just behind Paul’s head. It’s  _ theirs _ , his first reaction flutters. The glass shines under the light, the small scrawl of his signature in the bottom corner rendering him humbled beyond words. 

“Sure, go ahead,” Paul gestures towards the phone on a dark table that displays an empty vase and a modern looking telephone. He steps back into the living room to give John privacy, and he’s half relieved because he can’t stop the rose rising up his neck under the warm light. 

The cool soft pulse of the night breezes in through the half open door, leaves scuttle along the pavement when the wind picks up. The car will be fifteen minutes, he’s told, but doesn’t hang up when the call is over. He stands with his chin resting on the receiver, head lowered in a sleepy daze. The other guests are giggling and singing along to a musical number that John has never heard of. He’s lucid but heavy-lidded and uncomfortably envious of the people holding Paul’s attention.  _ If you’re a pretty actress…  _

The itch under his skin to drawing him closer to Paul tempts him, that weightless buzz he gets just from being near. But there’s an unsettled and suspicious tugging at his heart, urging him with a strained hollow voice,  _ don’t let yourself sink - stop it while you can! _

He walks outside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, and fumbles with the lock on the gate so he can step onto the sidewalk of the quiet road. From this distance he can hear the muffled sounds from the flat. Television static fizzles in his skull, walking with wide weighted steps until he decides he’s better off just sitting down on the pavement. He could fall asleep, just like this. He imagines himself curled up on the thin strip of damp grass between the sidewalk and the fence, unmoving and unrelenting. Something for Paul to notice on his way out, like the morning paper. He picks at the blades of grass poking through the cracks in the cement, ripping them up into smaller pieces and sprinkling them over his shoes. He wraps his arms around his knees and pulls them closer to his chest, resting his chin in the dip between his kneecaps and waits for the bright headlights of a car to cut through his tipsy solitude. 

His mind registers the distant sound of footsteps growing closer, and tries to rapid-blink himself into a more alert state just before Paul’s shadow emerges at his side, stretching longer and wider the closer those footsteps get.

“Thank you for coming along,” he says, “It was great having everyone here to see it.”

“How long’s the tour?” John asks, because to conjure up some polite reply would require him to think, and he’s in no mood for that. 

“Just a little under two months,” Paul lowers himself to sit next to John, heels of his boots scraping against the street as he stretches out his legs, “Might be longer, depends on how long the album can stay in the charts. I’m hoping so, I’d love to tour around Europe, y’know. See the sights.”

He smells the heat of the alcohol on his breath, wrapped up in the syrupy sweet taste of coke. It curls his stomach up in knots, to just sit there and think about how vacant things are going to be without this strange connection lingering so closely as he goes about his day. He’s going to miss this, despite common sense assuring him that this is the relief he needed before he got too carried away. Swept up on a breeze of carelessness and lustful sparks. 

“Be sure to send a postcard,” John’s interlocked fingers tighten their hold around his shins.

“Will do,” Paul looks up to the grey-navy gradient of the sky, tired shoulders drooping, “It’s surreal. I’ve been dreamin’ about this for so long. Having my songs play on the radio, getting up on stage every night… I’m getting all soft now, aren’t I?”

“Nothing wrong with that,” John mumbles and tips his head to look at Paul.

Paul fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, long digits twisting the small translucent buttons back and forth between his fingerpads, “Must be the drinks.”

A soft silence settles over them, sitting by the road with their amusingly different positions. Paul with his languid legs stretched and loose shoulders, whilst remaining alert-minded. And John, curled up like a coiled spring but possessing the lucidity of a drifting cloud. 

This feels like a goodbye, but that’s ridiculous. He licks over his teeth, mouth cotton-dry. It feels as though he was on the cusp of a school yard crush, that is all, and is now feeling the muted sting of envy of those  _ pretty actresses _ . He can’t make a more explicit pass at him now, not with all those people milling around the flat. And there’s a miserable simmering sense that the chances of his interest being requited are floating in the gutter anyway.

“I really will send that postcard, y’know,” Paul says, the heat radiating from his arm warming John’s side.

“Make it a decent one. Save the photos of a road in Brighton or wherever the fuck for relatives,” he huffs a breath over the fabric stretching over his knees. 

“Oi, I happen to have a  _ very  _ good artistic eye,” Paul’s smirk is almost audible.  _ God _ , John is going to be bitter about losing this.

“Stroking this ol’ dog’s ego won’t get you anywhere,” he mutters, “‘sides, you’ll be too busy getting yer kicks once that album hits the number one spot.”

“Says the fella too busy to  _ read  _ the card ‘cause he’s off doing commissions for celebrities.”

“Brando won’t mind the delay.”

Paul laughs into his hand, “Who was it then? The celebrity commission I read about in the paper the other day?”

“Oh, er,” John scans his blurred memory, “Dirk Bogarde. Brian met him at some... gathering.”

Paul doesn’t respond to that, leaving John to ruminate over the potential thoughts running through that head of his. Would he even be aware of the connections that link Bogarde to the gay world? John’s eyes fall into thin crescents and he directs his attention to the sheen across his boots. The car rumbles down the street, John waking up a bit at the sound.

“Well, ‘spose I’ll see ye around,” he feels stupid.

Paul smiles, hand hovering by John’s elbow as he lifts himself up with little grace in case he topples over, “Course you will. Might see you in the audience, yeah?”

“You might,” John clears his throat, “I’ll hold up a sign.”

“I look forward to that,” Paul pats his shoulder, palm pressing warm over his shoulder blade for a slow moment.

“ _ We’ll meet again… don’t know where! Don’t know when _ !” John sings out loud and sloppy as he swings the car door open.

“Go ‘ave a proper kip, you loon!” Paul grins, shaking his head as he watches John tumble into the backseat. John twists around to press his nose into the window, pulling a face.

Paul laughs with a clap of his hands and sings brightly, “ _ But I know we'll meet again some sunny day _ !”

His lungs constrict a little at the smooth crooning from the other side of the glass, peering with impaired vision at Paul’s figure waving him off with a soft smile. He recedes back into the leather of the carseat, throat dry and a hairline crack across his heart.

-

“Morning,” Brian greets him John comes trudging across the carpet and over to the kitchen.

“Feel like shite,” he comments through his sandpaper throat, swiping Brian’s glass of water from his hand and draining it. Brian is sitting at the small kitchen table in his pajamas, a cut grapefruit sitting on a plate in front of him. The light pouring in from the windows is making John’s bloated skull thump painfully.

“I did notice you were already here by the time I got back,” Brian reaches for his tea and takes a small sip, “How was it?”

“It was a fuckin’ ball,” John grumbles, beginning his hunt for something else to soothe the shrillness of the world his heavy eyes can’t cope with. 

“Ah, alright,” Brian spoons out the flesh of the fruit on his plate, the clinking of metal to ceramic making John’s ears ring. 

“It was a going-away party of sorts,” he hovers over the sink and cups his hands under the running tap, sagging forward and submerging his face into the cool water, “He’ll be off touring soon.”

“And I take it this wasn’t just a party of two?” 

John hovers over the sink, droplets of water running down the sharp lines of his face, “Course it bloody wasn’t.”

“Well, forgive me for wishful thinking on your behalf,” Brian sounds halfway between humoured and put off by his tone. 

“Don’t pretend like ye’d be pleased about it,” John grunts, grabbing a fistful of the hem of his shirt and patting down his face, “You’d be jealous. The miserable kind.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Brian inquires just as John turns back and sets himself down in the chair across from him.

“I  _ see  _ how you get at those little parties,” John huffs, “Some fella with a glint in his eye comes my way and you’ll swoop in like a bird of prey. Ye get yer feathers all ruffled, I’ve seen it.”

Brian’s expression sours into something more morose, “I only aim to protect you from  _ hustlers _ . You’re not immune to charm, John. I don’t want you blackmailed and heartbroken. You shouldn’t ever have to endure that terror.”

“You do,” John murmurs, “You don’t give a fuck what ‘appens to ye.”

“That’s not true,” Brian’s brow furrows, “And that incident is long behind me. It would be more than a year now, in fact.”

“Besides the point.”

“Which is?”

“Point being tha’ you’d be a proper drag if McCartney and I had gotten into bed.”

Brian sighs, pained, “I wouldn’t. And you  _ know  _ that, so I don’t see why you should berate me over breakfast for such a thing.”

“You know why,” John rubs his temples, “I’m no good hungover.”

“Clearly,” Brian purses his lips, “You really ought to be kinder to yourself.”

“What do ye mean by that?”

“If you fancied a boy worth your time, I wouldn’t get in the way. As it so happens, I’ve proven that on several occasions.”

John winces, “I’ll concede defeat to that, Your Honour.”

“So why pick on me?”

“Because I’m a miserable twat,” John presses his palms over his eyes, “An’ I know yer right. You’re always bloody right.”

Brian pushes his plate aside, reaching over the table to wrap gentle fingers around John’s wrist, “Please, John. You’ve given me such purpose and comfort, I would hate to see you unhappy."

“It’s not  _ you  _ that I’m unhappy with,” John runs his thumb along Brian’s knuckles, “It just felt different this time ‘round… with Paul. Thought it could ‘ave lead somewhere an’ it just...didn’t. Feel like a fool for it.”

Brian’s eyes communicate pure affection and concern, John’s stomach flips at the sight of it - regret pooling into his features. He gives his hand a firm squeeze and pulls himself back, chest ballooning and then sinking with a heavy exhale. 

“I’m sorry, Bri,” he winces, “I am, ye know. I don’t… I can’t make sense of any of it sometimes. Why you stick around.”

“I could say the same thing to you,” Brian muses.

“You’d be daft for ever thinking that,” John responds, hands twitching in his lap.

“We’re business partners,” Brian reminds him, “And good friends.”

“Who occasionally shag,” John adds.

“Who ought to trust one another,” Brian says with a soft smile, “I do trust you, John.”

John closes his eyes, “You might be the only one.”

“What can I do?” he implores, “What will lift your spirits?”

John contemplates the veins running underneath the pale skin of his hands, “A solid session in the studio will put me right.”

Brian’s eyes light up, smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

-

The studio had originally been a second bedroom situated right at the back of his flat, though John had bigger plans for it from the beginning. There are brilliant large windows that allow the sun filtering through the trees to pour in and create a mosaic of light over the dusty floorboards. The walls had been plain eggshell white and now are decorated with paint splatters, cartoonish figures dancing, pinned magazine cutouts and anything else that John deems worthy. There is a pale green loveseat pushed up against the wall and a small table next to it where he will crown the record player on top. There are shelves to store his art supplies and mason jars, buckets and washcloths scattered over the white sheets spread out over the floor around the work table and the easel near the windows. A rusted old sink sits in the back corner with more supplies sitting in plastic boxes underneath. John’s favourite thing in the world might just be to come here and work for hours and hours with his favourite albums spinning on a loop.

Today he has Bob Dylan’s latest release playing as he works on a collage, snipping jagged pieces from newspapers and pasting them on a wide canvas. He hums softly, gentle guitar chords soothing him as he peers through the flimsy pages of old magazines for particular extracts that vaguely relate to sex and attraction. He has a jumble of ideas that just require some divine sorting. He paints slashes of scarlet across blank spaces and arranges the extracts across the bottom of the canvas. 

_ No, there's nothin' you can send me, my own true love _

_ There's nothin' I'm wishin' to be ownin' _

_ Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled _

_ From across that lonesome ocean _

He enjoys being bold, he finds pleasure in the curious eyes scanning his work for meaning - the smile of understanding that follows, or even the scandalised anger. To create a reaction of any sort. Brian tells him that the greatest enemy to any soul is boredom. The plain and grey and rigid. He pats down splotches of black with his fingerpads around the edges of the canvas. Buzzing with inspired energy, he sucks on his lip and allows himself to be guided by instincts alone. He’s never been a perfectionist, far from it. He can barely tell the difference between his minor neuroticisms and reasonable editing. Pure and unfiltered instincts will guide him to the best outcome, he figures. 

_ I'm sure your mind is roamin' _

_ I'm sure your thoughts are not with me _

_ But with the country to where you're goin' _

An intangible weight presses down on him, mood wilting like a dying flower. He frowns and pulls away from his work, trying not to dwell on those lyrics for too long. He stalks over and cuts the record off before Dylan can finish his ballad. He wipes down his hands on a damp washcloth, inspecting the vinyl for any spots of paint before slipping it back into the cover. He’ll start it over another time and let Brian know what he thinks. Though, he does wonder if Paul knows much about Dylan. Another gaping wound of unknown in his burning desire to know him better. 

There’s a series of firm knocks on the door, startling him. He sighs, begrudgingly exiting the room as he wipes down the stubborn patches of red paint over his fingers. Another round of knocks as he paces down the hall.

“Alright, alright,” he huffs, twisting the key lodged into the lock and opening the door. 

“About time!” Paul chuckles, tapping at his watch.

John idles for a moment, a little shocked to see Paul on his doorstep, “Oh, er, don’t mind me... I was getting rid of the evidence.”

He holds up his hands to show off the red stains over his knuckles and under his fingernails. 

Paul simpers, “A  _ fine  _ way to spend your Tuesday afternoon.”

John ushers him in, quickly pulling off his glasses and tucking them into his pocket, “Well, Monday’s schedule was full and I reserve Sunday for worship.”

“What exactly do you worship?” Paul shucks off his coat and drapes it over his arm.

“Used to be Elvis,” John answers and leads them into the living room, “An’ I would’ve happily bowed down for Brigitte Bardot any time.”

Paul whistles, “Hands and knees for sure.”

Animalistic heat flares up and stutters his speech, his gaze sinking from the back of Paul’s neck down his spine, over the swell of his arse and the length of his legs as he navigates around the couch. He snaps his attention back to the present moment and swallows hard.

“What brings you here?” John runs a quick fix of fingers through the hair over his forehead.

“Just felt like it,” Paul looks over his shoulder, “Is that alright?”

“No, sure. Course it’s alright. Just… I don’t know.”  _ You start your tour tomorrow and I’m supposed to be forgetting the shape of your mouth. _

Paul smiles broadly, “Good. I promise it’s not a habit of mine, popping in unannounced, but I just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

“Haven’t got much to drink or eat but help yerself, might find some scraps.”

“Too full of nerves to eat anything,” Paul chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, “Tour starts tomorrow and I just kind of want to get going. Already packed my things.”

“Well,” John casts a glance down the hall to the open door of the studio, “Could listen to some Chuck Berry or Buddy Holly, whatever ye think.”

“That’d be really great,” Paul says with a smile.

“Just gotta grab the player from the other room,” John tells him and heads towards the room, surprised to hear Paul’s footsteps padding just behind him. 

“Is this your little workshop?” Paul steps into the space, paint fumes probably assaulting his lungs as he breathes in.

“Yeah, my elves are on break at the moment.”

“On strike?” Paul cracks a grin, “‘Cause I’d strike too. No fresh air in ‘ere. Terrible working conditions.”

“Open a window, then,” John pulls out the milk crate full of records, most of them being ones Stuart sent over, “Then come over and pick out yer favourite flavour.”

“Wouldn’t mind that rum flavoured- ugh... they have at that little Italian place- Oof!” Paul drags the stubborn fixture halfway open, “Gelato. Rum flavoured. It’s quite good.”

“Alcohol and desert? Two birds with one scoop,” John muses and plucks out a Johnny Hallyday record Stuart had sent him last year, “Apparently this is France’s Elvis.”

Paul walks over to inspect the cover with an arched brow, “Any good?”

“He’s alright,” John watches Paul’s eyes as they rake over the image of a young blond man, “Used to do myself up like that. The hair, the teddy boy clothes.”

Paul’s eyes flicker up to John, “Oh, did you?”

John’s stare doesn’t waver, “Proper, like. Grease in me hair, the whole lot. Had a leather pants phase at one point, too.”

“Leather pants, eh?” Paul looks back down at the record between them.

“Not really convenient for getting around… but then again…” he trails off and Paul chuckles and shifts his weight on his feet, forearms grazing.

“ _ You got around _ ,” Paul supplies, this time looking right into John’s eyes. It’s a shock of glittering eyes and dark lashes, John can’t stand the intimacy of noticing these features for too long and has to retreat back down to Johnny Hallyday’s printed face. His weight is gravitating towards Paul without awareness, vague hopes of Paul leaning over and dotting a kiss to his jaw held in his heart.

“Allen Ginsburg?” Paul remarks suddenly, stepping towards the crate and picking up a record. 

“Yeah, during our art student days we’d pass around Howl like a Bible at church,” John begins to flip through the rest of the records, “We’d hang around the beat poets like Royston Ellis - wanted to spit out our silver spoons and live that life properly, ye know?” 

Paul nods, placing the record back into the stack, “Must have missed that silver spoon, though.”

“Felt too cool for it at that point,” John’s nose crinkles with fond memories, “But it gets old after a while. Especially when you’ve got t’ take a job at the docks to pay for rent and food.”

“I understand,” Paul regards him with a small smile, “You worked at the docks?”

“Is it that hard to imagine me in me overalls and rubber boots?”

Paul laughs, “No actually, I can see it. I dunno where I would’ve ended up if I left music behind.”

“In the army, perhaps?” John smirks and Paul chuckles and slips a Roy Obison record on.

“Slim chance. They’d declare me unfit for duty,” Paul titters.

“Why’s that?” Neurons firing off into playful threads of jokes he ought to bite back.

Paul holds his silence, keeping John in the palm of his hand for everlasting seconds and remains outwardly unaffected, “I’m a compulsive citizen, can’t help it.”

“Aw, born like that, were you?” John snickers and leans against the wall, crossing his arms.

“Nature or nurture, I really don’t know,” Paul shrugs, swaying a little along to the Roy’s mournful crooning, a hint of a smirk curling up his lip.

_ I was alright for a while, I could smile for a while _

_ Then I saw you last night, you held my hand so tight _

_ When you stopped to say, "Hello" _

Paul has him lightning-struck, rendered helpless to do anything but admire his figure. He’s a vision worth worshipping, and John would happily get down on his knees to proclaim that.  _ Fuck _ . He runs his palm over his chest, the material of his shirt feeling like an uncomfortable second skin he needs remain hidden under to protect the vulnerability that Paul seems to coax out like a dancing snake. 

“Is that what you were working on?” Paul gestures over to the table and John’s mind has to scramble and rearrange itself in order to respond.

“Just playing around with something,” he shrugs, feeling hot and self conscious when Paul walks over to inspect the unfinished piece. John walks over to join him and ends up shoulder to shoulder with him once again. 

“I like it,” Paul hums.

John scoffs, “You can be honest.”

“I am,” Paul elbows him in the ribs gently, “It’s a tad controversial, though, I must say.”

John’s eyes roll down to the pieces of more lewd cut outs, printed sexual exploits from anonymous readers to magazines and personal ads from the classifieds. His attention gets caught on the cut out of Brando’s torso (clad in a shirt that hugs rippling muscles tight enough to test the threads of the material) with a cut out of James Dean’s brooding face pasted over the older actor’s hips.

“Well, that’s half the point,” John explains, eyes skirting up to see if he can gauge  _ anything  _ from those doe eyes. Meanwhile, any subtle movement could have John crumbling to the floor, mouthing at Paul’s boots and pleading for an affirmation he could hold onto easier.

Paul tilts his crown to face him, bottom lip bitten down and eyes looking post-coital and unashamedly alluring. A breath could knock him over, his nerves scattering like a handful of marbles thrown onto the floor. Heart fluttering like a small manic bird he cannot tame, the indulgent impulse to drive himself forward and have their mouths meet in a gentle crash throbs in every corner of his mind. He ought to iron out the desire held in his eyes but he can’t. A smile curls the edge of his lips when Paul’s lips part slightly. And the swell of that bottom lip is too enticing to be ignored, the soft lines of his face demanding to be followed along with a loving trail of his gaze. 

“I will write you,” the words seem to tumble without much consideration from Paul’s mouth. Neither of them back away. 

“You’d miss me that much, eh?” John skirts on the edge of teasing, but mostly just wants to close the void between them. 

Paul’s lids flutter like he’s waking up from a dream, “I- I would… I’m writing to everyone here I’ll miss. I, uh, I’ll have George with me so that’s…”

John raises the angle of his jaw and watches the nervous twitch of Paul’s mouth through hooded eyes.

“I’ll miss London,” Paul’s tongue darts over his lip, “Starting to… really feel like home.”

“Home?” John echoes softly, “Why’s that?”

“Well, y’know, I’ve, uh, made some great friends… Startin’ to get into the lifestyle… going to shows… Jane Asher, the actress, she an’ I are phoning every other day now and sh-”

“Jane Asher?”

“Yeah,” Paul swallows, throat bobbing, “Don’t know what she sees in me, really, but she just… knocked me out when I first met her. Really great girl.”

John goes rigid and blank, processing the rejection (for that’s what it was, he won’t kid himself) like he’s just been doused with cold rainwater. He snaps back into a retreat, shifting his weight from where they were joined at the shoulder and adjusts to the mortification seeping cold into his consciousness. He’s whirling in a number of possible bitter remarks.  _ I’ve never heard of her  _ and  _ Will she be just as sweet on you if the album sinks in the charts?  _ sit dangerously on his tongue. Instead of a violent quip, he curls back into the quiet awe of the enigmatic McCartney. He contemplates his reply carefully, noting the seconds ticking by with awkward silence sitting like a stone wall between them.

“She sounds pretty grand,” John murmurs, throat almost too dry to force the words out.

“She is. Never met a girl like her before,” Paul’s attention is now mostly fixed on the canvas and John wants to swipe the work away from him. It’s a stupid mix of embarrassment and pettiness, the kind he’s familiar with, eating away at the cool exterior. He feels a bit like how he used to get with his girlfriends back in Liverpool and with Brian when they first got to London. He grits his teeth, Orbison wailing away in the undercurrents of the moment. 

“Best of luck to ye then, son,” he peels back a cover of a magazine to inspect the contents with false interest, “Send all your loving to her, or whatever it is.”

Another few beats of silence pass by, “Did you want to, uh, go see a show or something? A dinner out on the town might be-”

“Ah, can’t,” John interrupts and flicks a page over, “Got plans with Brian and his crowd, ye see. Should get myself rinsed off and dressed now.”

He stares with fearless eyes and juts his chin out, Paul seems to catch on immediately and begins his slow retreat to the door.

“Oh, sure. I’ll see you,” he scratches at his temple and gives one last look around the room, “I can get you tickets if you ever wanted to come along, ye know. To my show, that is.”

John walks him out, a few paces behind Paul as they travel through the hall with awkward stilted steps. 

“I can give you my manager’s assistant’s number, in fact,” Paul fishes through the pockets of his coat, groping bunches of fabric until he finds a small notepad and pen in the inner pocket and begins to scrawl the sequence down, mouthing along as he mentally recites it, “Just give ‘im your name and you should be ‘right.”

John keeps his mouth clamped shut and presence somewhat detached, the hollowness in his chest expanding as he marinates in disappointment. Paul tears off the page with a neat snap of his wrist and passes it to him. 

“Catch up soon,” Paul says it like a promise.

“Sure,  _ mate _ ,” John tongues at incisors and slots between Paul and the door to open it for him. 

Paul meanders out, taking his sweet time and prodding at John’s nerves. He spins on his heels and grabs the door edge like something important just occurred to him.

“Have you heard Dylan’s latest?” he asks, eyes as sweet as his voice. 

A pale sadness sits like a knot in his throat he can’t speak through, wordlessly absorbing the profound sense of loss he’s trying to combat.

“I have,” is all he can muster, succumbing to depression sitting tight behind his ribs.

Paul’s face hardens, bottom lip almost threatening to pout. John doesn’t want to examine why his heart strings twang with a melancholic heaviness at the sight of Paul's slightly hurt confusion. He just wants to shut the door and be done with it, cast aside the longing to lounge with Paul in bed and discuss Dylan’s lyrics. 

“It’s really great. I’ll… yeah. I’ll see you,” Paul steps back, turning away with his shoulders pulled up and tight and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. He reluctantly soaks in the image of Paul walking away from him, drenching his heart in blue and grey before he snaps the door shut. He presses his forehead against the wood, eyes shut tight and his breath being dragged out of him. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for Paul to turn around, to kiss him at the door like they’re teenage sweethearts just about to tip past a curfew. He drags his body back to the studio, feet clumsy and kicking the white sheet up at the edge. Maybe Orbison is exactly what he needs right now. He curls up on the loveseat, hand running across the floor until his knuckles brush against a forgotten pack of ciggies. He lights up a smoke for himself, making sure that the ashtray is suitably close by, and watches the stream of smoke billow upwards. He puffs out wonky rings, memory failing to recall the name of that photographer with the devilish grin and blown out pupils that Brian warned him about. Not that it really could ever compare, he thinks sourly. And the idea of turning up at Brian’s door with defiant lust doesn’t compare either. It’s a woefully pathetic thought, so he pushes it aside and smokes lazily until he tires himself out with his own anxiety and falls asleep. 

-

He decides quickly that he’s not going to mope. It’s a conscious and fiercely determined effort that involves fighting against a heavy uninspired state and compulsively smoking to ease the frustration building at the sparse creativity he can barely conjure up. He’s lounging on the living room couch, cigarette dangling from his pinched lips, holding off on the temptation to throw something at the television. Everything is dull,  _ he  _ is dull. Days are starting to pass him by.

He doesn’t think about Paul bopping about on stage being the star he is and adored by thousands. He doesn’t think about his skin shimmering with perspiration and long lithe fingers dancing over guitar strings and those sharp eyes that hold the potential to cut him up to pieces or melt him into submission. But his resolve ebbs and flows, when the tide recedes it reveals the yearning and loneliness sticking stubbornly to his soul like gritty sand to damp skin. The restlessness combating his inherent laziness is driving him around the bend. He scribbles cartoon figures in a notebook and scratches in lines of poetry that might just be Dylan lines rearranged with a sprinkle of Lennonisms.  _ Jane Asher _ . The name circuits around the perimeter of his brain like a shadow. He doesn’t want to pin it down or acknowledge it for too long. 

The wound festers. When his crescent eyes finally slip closed again at night he dreams vividly. He’s got gold in his hands and it’s warm and precious. It morphs into a liquid state and starts to spill from the gaps between his fingers. Panic curls around his ribcage like cold venom, watching the gold disappear into the murkiness below his feet. He can’t shout about it, can’t do anything but watch it drip like honey. He flounders about in the dark, desperately searching for light. For warmth. For anything but the dark and blurred surroundings he can’t quite navigate without tripping up. He can’t make any progress, each step sinking into the ground beneath him. When he blinks awake with a short gasp it takes a moment for reality to be established. He’s alone in bed with the sheets in an anxious tangle between his legs and sweat like a film over his forehead. In bewilderment, or maybe in clarity, his first lucid and coherent thought is that Paul must have had the same dream. A pinprick of shame presses into his heart and he hisses an expletive under his breath. 

-

A postcard arrives in the mail and John knows straight away who sent it. It doesn’t depict a road in Brighton, but instead a pier stretching across dull looking water. The docks of Liverpool, he recognises it with a helpless smile and flips over to read Paul’s message.

_ Greetings from the Docks!  _

_ Having a fine time in Liverpool. I hope we will meet again (soon!) _

_ Paul _

He reads it over with a pang of self-pitying. He notes the crossed out mistakes and wonders if they had been thoughts that fizzled out or perhaps hints of Paul’s own confusion and worry. Maybe both. Is it selfish and cruel to hope he feels just as pained over this as he does? Does Paul see it in him? The thinly veiled desire he’s carried since that night in the gallery. Surely all he’d have to do is look into his eyes and be able to see it.

_ Look at me. _

An idea springs up through the angst and he doesn’t waste time, darting over to the studio and putting the canvas he had been working on off to the side, producing a clean slate to work on. He starts without a draft, just sets up his paints and gets to work blotting in soft pinks and oranges, smearing them together as he goes. Never one to lean into realism if he could help it, he decides that this one time shall be the exception.  _ Look at me _ , he centers the entirety of his mind on it like a mantra,  _ look at me.  _ He remembers the full size colour cutout of Elvis that stood in a store window in Liverpool, how those eyes seemed to burn into and follow him as he walked past. Remembers how much of a thrill it was to imagine Elvis himself looking at him like that. A dark eyed smoulder under thick brows. The kind of image he would conjure up in those wanking sessions in Strawberry Fields as a lad. Swaying from Bardot to Presley depending on whoever the star of the last film he had seen was. And he wonders if the answers would have presented themselves sooner if he had let his gaze linger long enough.

He wants to map out galaxies in the eyes he’s depicting, flashes of blue and flecks of orange - blended into a harmony of sorts. He files through magazines and newspapers to find the letters he needs to spell out those three divine words and carefully places them in the center. He hums to himself, conjuring up the words sitting in his heart. One particular phrase stands out to him amongst the complex web of emotive language. He deems it worthy enough to scrawl in ink along the bottom of the canvas, ‘ _ Sunlight shining in your eyes as I face the desert skies _ ’. With the pen still in hand he begins to doodle his usual cartoonish self, stripped of the glasses and shaggy hair. Instead, he draws out the bloated shy and vulnerable self. A flower in his hand, blushing in watercolour rose as he offers it with eyes shut. He smears the dusty remains sitting in his ashtray over the eyes, pressing the grains into the drying paint. With the bud of contentedness starting to bloom, he continues to work feverishly throughout the day.

By the time he finishes it, the original meaning has been built upon. He looks over the final product and a sheen of goosebumps rise over his skin. He’s not overjoyed with the final result (he hardly ever is), but knows not to turn his nose up from the first bout of inspiration he’s had in days. As he showers, scrubbing off the remains of his session from his arms, he considers the possibility of heading out and finding himself a decent lay. It’s definitely been too long, the swell in his shorts with heat late at night at the quietest suggestion of a lustful dream is a fairly clear cut indication - he’s been starving for it. Still, perfect Paul lingers in his daydreams. Hints of him in the vague figures he imagines grinding in bed with. 

Those damn songs play on the radio constantly, so he lets records spin on incessant loops to drown out the possibility of hearing that voice. He appears in newspapers, guitar slung across his front with that winning smile - wooing the UK as he does so. He doesn’t even want to escape him, not really. There’s still that burst of pride at seeing his mate succeed. Just wishes he hadn’t been such a fool for him.

A letter from Stuart arrives and it feels like cool relief to tear it open and read now that loneliness is sinking in too deep.

_ “Dearest friend, I have made the most wonderful friends recently. A trio from Germany on holiday. I’m completely captivated by their beauty and charm, particularly that of the girl - Astrid. A saintly, delicate and beautiful white rose. She’s a photographer. A vision. She’s living with me at present, sewing the tear in my shirt by the window as I write… _

_ I do hope you are well and happy, my friend. Thinking back to all those times in our old flat - boiling water in a pan just for hot water!! My heart is bursting with nostalgia and the joy of having found a new love to devote myself to…” _

There is a photo of Stuart and this newfound love enclosed within the envelope. The two of them are gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, small smiles playing on their lips. The backdrop is rather dark and bleak and they seem to glow pale and angelic in comparison. The swell of emotion is a mixture of happiness and envy. As he’s sorting through the mess on the coffee table, Stuart’s painting above the television catches his eye. He pauses his decluttering and stands up straight, regarding the work with an idea starting to take form. 

-

He practically barges into Brian’s apartment with hasty steps, “Aye Bri, I need you to organise me a trip to Paris. Soon as possible.”

“Paris?” Brian twists around on the couch to regard him with a furrowed brow. John skids to a halt when he sees that they are not alone, a dark haired man sitting rather close next to Brian on the couch clears his throat and greets him softly.

“Oh, er, a bad time?” John blinks, volume lowering to a more respectable level. 

Brian gives a wave of his hand, “Erm...no, no. I was just- Paris, did you say?”

John gives a lop-sided smile, “Oui.”

“I can’t organise anything beyond a long weekend for you before you have your work featured in the Whitechapel exhibit,” Brian calculates aloud, “How long would you need?”

“Anything less than a week is too short,” John approaches the couch. The stranger beside Brian murmurs something about getting them another drink and darts off towards the bar. He resembles Rock Hudson, more unassuming and less muscular, but classically handsome nonetheless. 

John leans over the back of the couch and shakes Brian’s shoulder, “Who’s  _ he _ ?”

“A friend of mine,” Brian enunciates with an elegant wave of his hand, “Why Paris all of a sudden?”

“Want to get away for a bit,” he admits, keeping his tone light, “See Stu, visit the museums. Could do with a bit of  _ forniquer _ , as they say.”

“Oh, I can book you a flight for the tenth of March and organise your accommodation in the meantime,” Brian assures him with a firm nod, “Your pronunciation is a bit off.”

“Won’t matter, I can speak in tongues. And no need for fancy hotels, I can sleep on Stu’s couch.”

“If you insist,” Brian looks to his companion with a small smile. 

“Would you like a drink?” the Rock Hudson look-a-like asks politely, entering the room and holding a glass of wine in each hand, “I was assured it was one of the finest from family-run vineyard in Italy.”

“That’s kind, but I best be off,” John gives Brian a squeeze over his shoulder, “and leave you two to...it.”

The man gives a tight smile, looking to Brian for direction (who is blushing deep red), “I, uh, take it you are Mister John Lennon?”

“I am. Whatever Eppy’s told you, it’s all true,” John steps over and shakes his hand, noting how warm it is despite holding a cool drink just seconds earlier.

He smiles, slightly more relaxed, “Then it’s truly an  _ honour  _ to meet you. My name is Michael, I’m the director of the theatre that commissioned the mural. I wanted to thank you personally.”

“Is that right?” John casts a knowing glance over his shoulder, taking pleasure in Brian’s white-knuckled nerves.

“We were all  _ very  _ impressed and pleased with it, I did send a card with my own personal thanks to- erm... to Mr Epstein. I’m sure he passed on the praise,” Michael’s fingers tug at his shirt collar.

“Michael and I were just discussing the Whitechapel event, as a matter of fact. He’s quite interested in purchasing a piece for himself,” Brian rises from the couch and walks over, smiling at his date with gleaming eyes. His hands nervously adjust his dinner jacket over his front.

“I’m sure,” John nudges Brian’s polished shoe with his own, “...that you two have an evening of  _ professional business talk  _ ahead, so I’ll be on my way.”

Brian shoots him a look and Michael’s neck flushes scarlet as he quickly retreats back to the couch. 

“It’s nice to see you making  _ connections _ ,” John murmurs and emits a teasing simper.

“I don-” Brian starts but John interjects with a playful tugging at his undone tie.

“Please do let dear Mike know that it’s alright to put out on the first date, poor sod is turning purple,” John mocks in a posh English twang.

Brian opens his mouth to defend Michael’s honour but John quickly darts towards the door, calling a string of farewells over his shoulder.

-

The wait is almost unbearable. The mechanical grind of each day sends him right on the edge, snapping at Brian cold and sharp over the telephone as he tries to organise John’s week ahead. The instinct to flee the incubator that has become his flat is burrowing into his skin. What aggravates this unsteadiness is unpredictable and always undeserved. And maybe that has something to do with that number pinned to the kitchen table underneath a teacup. It doesn’t tempt him, not one bit. He’s been close to tossing it in the bin multiple times, but can’t seem to will his hands to do the deed. Maybe he feels more powerful for it, for possessing no desire to dial that number. Feels proud. He’s in control of this. He has the upper hand. 

Naturally, it has to all come undone.

The New Generations exhibit at the Whitechapel Gallery is a brilliant opportunity for him, a marvellous honour - as Brian tells him. And he’s enjoying himself, enjoying the curious eyes inspecting his work with delight. He doesn’t even mind that his name has now become tied to Paul’s because of the album cover. He’s ok. A little tipsy from the champagne he’s practically inhaling like a life source, but ok. He is calm and bright and settled in his blossoming fame. 

Brian and Michael are lingering by his ‘ _ Look at Me _ ’ piece, standing close and cosy as they chat. It stirs up a strange burst of possessiveness, but it isn’t without an accompanying joy for his friend. He looks happy, all charming and theatrical and proud. Makes John’s heart twinge with admiration. 

“John Lennon?” a boy with a mop of fire-red hair and thick specs approaches him with a broad smile, “Really enjoy your work here, it’s fantastic.”

He shakes the stranger’s hand, thanking him, “Glad t’ hear it.”

He beams, slightly crooked teeth on show, “Love that backwards stuff. Love is real, real is love. You becoming an avant garde man?”

He gestures over to the two mirrors, angled in a ‘V’ shape that have ‘Love is real’ painted across the middle. 

John shrugs, “I don’t really know. Don’t think I’m hip enough.”

“I wouldn’t say that, you were already onto that Paul McCartney chap before he hit it big. Say, you and I have a connection of sorts through him.”

“Oh?” John sips at his drink, pulse starting to thump heatedly.

“Don’t know if I should be spreading it, but my sister and Paul have struck up a bit of a courtship. Might be more, time will tell.”

John’s eyes narrow, “Is tha’ right?”

The man shrugs, chuckling, “Seems like it. Only met him once, he’s a nice fella. Played piano at our place for hours and talked music. My name is Peter, by the way. Peter Asher. I’m not an artist myself but-” 

His cynicism licks up to his tongue like a fire caught in the wind, the pressure cooker in his skull becoming too much to bear in this moment of intoxication, “And she’s not worried? ‘Bout all those fans throwin’ themselves at ‘im. City to city, no ball and chain to lock him down?”

Peter blinks, glances off to his right and nervously adjusts his glasses over his nose, “Erm, I don’t know how  _ serious  _ they are…”

“Well that’s alright, then. No ‘arm done while he’s away, sendin’  _ all his loving  _ back home,” John slurs, tipping back the rest of his drink, “Tell you what, I’m sure it works out  _ brilliantly  _ for them. They’ll be the paper’s darlings.”

Peter’s brow furrows, looking almost disgusted by him, “I see… I’ll just-”

“Aye, now, I’m sorry,” John waves his hand, blurred edges of his vision making him feel a tad unbalanced, “Didn’t mean t’ be such a prick. I’m a softie at heart, I swear, jus’ a little drunk."

The redhead does nothing to indicate he’s any less perplexed and borderline frightened by him. They exchange awkward small talk before Peter excuses himself and bolts off. A hand grabs his arm and turns him around, Brian’s concerned face appearing in front of his nose before he can comprehend he’s even moved.

“ _ John _ ,” he stresses through a whisper, “Is something wrong?  _ Please  _ don’t take it out on the visitors.”

“Don’t have t’ serve yerself up as me punching bag whenever I go off the rails,” John screws up his nose and takes a step back, “I’m alright.”

Brian crosses his arms, eyes full of dark condemnation, “Tell me what it is.”

“It is what it is,” John pushes his empty glass into Brian’s chest, “I’ll stop drinking, I’ve ‘ad enough, anyroad.”

“Do you want me to call a car?” he asks, stoic features now softening. John wilts, shoulders sagging forward. 

“Just need fresh air,” John’s voice crackles a little, “Send my regards to your boyfriend, maybe a drink. Make it somethin’  _ fruity  _ so he’ll know it was me.”

Brian goes stiff, just stares at him like a matador to a wild beast as he bucks up in circles. That calm, steady, fierce look that tells John just how much of fucking idiot he’s being without communicating in such words. 

“Come with me, now,” Brian urges and John meekly obeys and follows him out the door and onto the street. Paranoia creeps in, trying to rustle up from his memory exactly what he had said to Peter. Seems like words had just spilled thoughtlessly from his mouth, no memory of it to be retained. 

“Alright, let’s have it. What happened?”

John exhales, “Scared off carrot-top. T‘was just a minor offence, Commissioner.”

“None of that, now,” Brian warns, “Tell me.”

“I feel stupid,” John admits, “And it just...keeps slipping away from me.”

“What does?”

John laughs bitterly, “Common sense? My own fuckin’ head? Everything. Nothing stays.”

Brian nods, “There is no harsher critic than yourself, and I could only trust  _ you  _ to feel this way during such an exceptionally successful time for you. Tonight has been tremendous, please, John. Please see all that is happening for you.”

There are people shuffling around them, so affection is out of bounds. He gives a small smile and hopes that communicates it all. It doesn’t necessarily ease the nerves churning in his gut, nor the sloppy shame coursing through him, but it’s enough to get him to slink back into the gallery and remain relatively upright and charming for the rest of the event.

He wonders what Paul is doing right now. 

-

**Paris, 1964**

He practically barrels into Stuart when they spot each other at the airport, luggage dropped at his feet as he lunges at his friend.They both laugh, boyish and gleeful. Sutcliffe is scarcely recognisable at first glance, blending into the crowd of androgynous figures in thick coats. 

“Fuckin’ hell! Yer swimming in that thing, aren’t ye?” John laughs, ruffling Stuart’s neat mop of hair.

“Aye, just you wait. It’s freezing outside,” Stuart warns, smoothing down the coat over his front, “Christ, I very nearly didn’t recognise you. Look at all that glorious hair!”

John runs his fingers through the locks falling just over his ears, “Ah, I don’t have any photos of meself to send over.”

“Still camera shy?” Stuart teases.

“Camera-phobic, more like,” John picks up his bag, “I think they feel the same way about my ugly mug.”

“Come off it,” Stuart shakes his head, “We can’t  _ both  _ be the neurotic artist with a complex.”

“Why not? Thought that was part of the gig,” John jokes.

“Might be, but try to suspend that for a moment while you’re here. Your letter had me worried about you.”

“I was just being dramatic,” John says as they walk towards the exit, “Another trait of a loony artist.”

“Couldn’t hurt to have a decent holiday, though,” Stuart replies, leading them both to a stalled car by the side of the street, “Astrid is at the apartment, making us lunch. Might have to go easy on the accent, she’s from Germany and still getting the hang of English.”

“German?” John raises a brow as they slip into the backseat of the taxi, “Enemy territory.”

“We’re not our parents,” Stuart scoffs, “You’ll like her, she’s very sweet.”

“Hath Cupid’s bow strucketh thee, Sutcliffe?” John mimes reading from a script.

“T’is true,” Stuart chuckles, “Thought I had mentioned that once or twice in my letter.”

“Somewhere between you gushing about her hands and your prose about her voice,” John jabs Stuart’s arm with his finger.

“I’ll try to refrain, lest you tire of me already,” Stuart promises.

“I’m just happy to be here,” John sighs, turning to look at the window, “Getting a bit antsy in London.”

“Why’s that?” Stuart asks.

“Dunno,” John swallows, “Needed a break, is all. A bit of escapism every now and then doesn’t go astray, right?”

Stuart hums, “Depends on your definition of ‘now and then’. And what it is you’re escaping.”

John’s chest swells with an anxious breath, “Don’t have an answer to that… That might be half the trouble.”

-

Astrid proves within minutes of meeting John that she’s a mother hen, serving them an elaborate lunch at a set table and making sure everything is just right. Her blonde hair, curling just under her jaw, bounces as she paces back and forth from the table to the kitchen. He feels at ease with her, almost comforted by her presence in a way he doesn’t usually get with new faces. 

The conversation drifts from art to life and back to art, intermingling the way it had done back in Liverpool. It feels nice to sit at the table with a glass of wine in hand and talk with Stu in person, he missed the banter that’s impossible to capture in handwritten letters being sent from country to country. The apartment is warm and lived in, but not untidy the way their flat had been. Modern furnishings, sleek and black and white, with various sculptures and piles of books scattered around the place. Refurbished mirrors with silver frames, flowers in glass vases in various places and industrial lights have everything looking like a existential-bohemian dreamscape. When they have stuffed themselves full of food, Stuart shows him around the apartment. Astrid shows off her photography equipment and Stuart talks him through the process of making a film. Eventually, Astrid goes out to meet a friend and the two men retreat to the living room. There’s a platter of fresh fruit on the coffee table waiting for them.

“You might as well marry her, Stu, yer not going to find a bird better than her,” John takes a handful of grapes and lounges back in the velvet cushions propped up behind his back.

“I’m well aware,” he chuckles and smiles serenely.

There’s an empty pause, the first since he’s got here, and somehow he already knows what is set to follow.

“And what about yourself? Got a girl or, someone, back in London to warm your bed?” Stuart asks with a softness that John can only fondly scoff at.

“Someone?” John shifts in his seat and curls one leg underneath him, “Haven’t mastered the art of subtlety yet, have ye Stu?”

“Well,” Stuart shrugs and emits a shy huff of laughter, “I  _ am  _ a bohemian, surrounded by all sorts at all times. That’s just how it is. Wouldn’t want you t’ think I was square now, would I?” 

“Ah, is that it?” John teases, “Or did my bent edge just happen to escape your keen perceptions, hm?”

Stuart throws back his head and laughs, “With my eyesight? More than likely.”

“Must have forgotten yer specs that night I begged you to let me blow you in that alleyway,” John simpers.

The high spots on Stuart’s cheeks tint rose as he recalls the memory with a bashful smile, “Aye, must have. To be fair, you  _ were  _ out of your mind drunk.”

“Not completely out,” John replies, softer, fingers curling over his knee. There’s a stillness in the air before Stuart’s hand reaches over to rest on his forearm. John’s eyes go a little misty at that, thinking about how Stu was the first male that he could be affectionate with. How gentle he was in comparison to every other mate he’d had at that point. How much he needed him, his mind and his soul. How drawn he was from that first moment he spotted him working in that awful art class. What a  _ brute  _ John had been at first, softening during nights spent discussing philosophy as they burned table legs to keep warm. 

“Well then, that’s alright,” Stuart reassures him with a squeeze around his wrist, “ _ You’re _ alright.”

“Yeah,” John’s throat constricts around the tense ball of emotion.

The fellow artist tugs at him playfully, “I’m not narrow, or daft for that matter.”

John pats his hand and expels a relieved sigh, “I figured you would have known I was a forked road. That bloody intuition of yours.”

“We were practically living in each other’s pockets back in the day,” Stuart reasons, sitting back with loose limbs and warm eyes, “Might have formed into one person if we kept it up.”

“Uglier than Frankenstein’s monster.”

Stuart chuckles, nudging his shin with the toe of his boot, “Speak for yourself! But really, I’m glad you’re at ease with it, John. Even your letters… You’re not trying to prove something to the world and twisting yourself into something you’re not.”

“Most of the time, anyway,” John slumps a bit but can still feel the airy relief from having a great weight lifted from his chest.

“Though, you didn’t answer my original question” Stuart reaches over and plucks a cut strawberry from the platter, “ _ Is _ there someone?”

“I’m a lone wolf, as it happens.”

“Might not be a full moon, but you could still have some fun,” Stuart assures him, “There’s a few bars nearby, could probably walk to one in particular that Astrid an’ I visit sometimes.”

John assesses his body and registers his jet-lagged and placid state, not necessarily itching to find another warm body just yet. 

“Son, I’m happy enough just to chat and listen to some old Elvis records, to be honest with ye.”

Stuart grins, “Even better.”

-

Ten days in Paris pass by in a dreamy wine-fuelled daze. He tags along with Stuart to art galleries and meets his beloved lecturers and mentors. They go to small coffee bars that play jazz and the more rowdy student hubs that play American rock and roll. They go to banned bookshops and rake through the English section, Astrid takes their photographs as she sets up the lighting in her studio and he finds himself laughing genuine and bright. If it weren’t for the nagging void where a phone call to Paul would be, he would even go as far as to say he was relaxed.

He wakes up late in the morning, peeling himself off the couch and roots a palm onto the dining table to steady himself, lest he topple over. He may have had too much to drink the previous night. He hears Astrid’s soft murmuring from somewhere further away, and slowly registers the fact the shrill ring of a phone had woken him up in the first place. 

“John. Mister Brian has asked for you,” Astrid alerts him softly. He had expected just that, for Brian to get impatient and nervous about being away from the exhibit for too long. 

“Bonsoir,” John drawls, sleep-soaked voice rough around the edges.

“Ah, John, I don’t mean to disrupt your holiday but I thought you should know that I received a call from Paul just now asking how you were getting on. He had called your home but obviously no one was there to answer. I explained that you were in Paris with an old friend, I hope that was alright by you.”

There is a flash of shock to his drowsy system, heart illuminating in gold for a fleeting moment before it weighs itself back down with doubt, “And what did he want?”

“He didn’t say. He did tell me it wasn’t urgent, all he said was that he had seen your name in the paper in an article about the New Generations exhibit.”

The wisps of hope warm him, though he’s not sure what to do with this feeling, “Did you give him this number?”

“I wanted your permission first. I know you didn’t want to be disturbed on your trip, but I had thought you would be eager to hear from him,” Brian replies, “So, what shall I do?”

John hesitates, thoughts moving simultaneously like molasses and firing bullets. The cogs of his mind stiffen around the idea that he may be launching himself into heartache willingly if he allows this. If he allows anyone to slip past his defences. The cord of the phone stays pinched between anxious fingers, voice wedged in his throat waiting for a clear answer. The line remains buzzing, Brian patiently awaiting his decision. 

“Did he really want to talk to me?” John asks finally, voice softening.

“I can only go by my personal intuition,” Brian says, “But I do think he was sincerely disappointed not to hear from you.”

“Oh,” John’s jaw clenches, “You’re sure?”

“Ninety percent,” Brian tells him.

“With interest?” 

“Absolutely,” Brian chuckles.

“Alright… I think… I think you can call him back and give him the number,” John decides. His sensibility recoils in horror, primal instincts crying out to correct this poor judgement. He knows better, doesn’t he? Than to just walk into a burning building? What is he hoping to find? He doesn’t find the answer when he places the phone back down.

-

“It’ll all go to shit if I let it happen,” John groans, sitting in a secluded section of the coffeehouse Stuart had whisked him along to later in the afternoon, “There’s something about him, about _us_ _together_ , I like it too much. He seems to like it just how it is.”

Stuart cradles a mug of black coffee in his hands, brow furrowing thoughtfully, “You think he could just be waiting for a decent sign?”

“If something was going to happen, it would have happened by now,” John dismisses, eyes lowering as he pinches up the flakey bits of pastry that had crumbled into the plate. A saxophone player with leather skin and a tipped bowler hat performs by the door, playing a slow and lonely tune.

“Do you really think so?” Stuart asks, frowning, “You need to give him a chance, John.”

“To sock me in the face?” John huffs, “No thanks.”

“You say he plays along, that’s not for nothing,” Stuart offers, feline eyes wandering up and over to the various posters hung up over the walls - the faces of poets, models, politicians, philosophers and authors all staring down at them like a silent jury. 

“He’s a real charmer, a crowd-pleaser, that’s all it is. Probably wants another decent album cover, a business partner. That’s all it is.”

“ _ Connard _ ,” Stuart scoffs, “So you won’t even entertain the idea? You’ll just shut yourself off because he didn’t throw himself at you at the first sign of innuendo? ”

John’s nose crinkles with with shame and amusement, “Not a bad system.”

“Not a particularly good one either,” Stuart corrects, “And you’re only doing it ‘cause you care. If you didn’t you wouldn’t be obsessing over it like you are.”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“For the last hour?” Stuart challenges, “You’re daft if you really can’t see it, but I know you better than that. You  _ do  _ see it.”

The draft from a door opening and closing sends a hit of stale smoke and burnt coffee beans wafting over, “I saw two guys holding hands just before.”

Stuart drums his fingertips over the side of his mug, “It doesn’t get you thinking?”

“Course it does. I’m a romantic. A hopeless one, but still,” John rests his jaw in his palm, “What can I do?”

“What do you  _ want  _ to do?”

He angles himself with a lazy turn of his head to look out of the window, view slightly obscured by steam, and watches couples pass by - umbrellas being shared, kisses stolen under trees. He pins the answer down under the weight of his lonely heart.

-

The anticipation is agony. He holds dull hope that the telephone will shriek out but keeps any real expectations shadowed behind a front. Though, he cannot help the frantic leaping of his pulse when Stuart hands him the phone with an all-knowing smirk. The few seconds it takes to hear Paul’s voice for the first time in a short eternity grants him no mental preparation. He is almost speechless, mouth gaping open helplessly when he holds up the earpiece to hear the buzz of the connection between the two countries. 

“Hello?”

“John, it’s Paul. Uh, well, ‘spose you knew,” he huffs a bashful laugh, “It’s my last day of the tour, finishing up back here in London, actually. I wanted to call you up an’ see if you’d be there at the gallery when I popped in. Get a proper insight into it all, y’know? But, uh, that’s alright. Enjoying Paris?”

He feigns indifference and keeps the thrill in his chest from influencing his voice, “You wouldn’t get much ‘proper insight’ from me anyway, go see it as it is… if you want. But, I- yeah, Paris is great. Really great.”

“Why’s that? Don’t want me knowing your secrets?” Paul replies, humour lacing his tone. 

“You’d be running off scared if I told you,” John bites down on the flesh of his lip, “How was the tour?”

“Ha, I’ll - yeah, the tour,” Paul stumbles for a moment, “It was fantastic. Didn’t want it to end, but… I probably missed the studio more than anything. Writing songs and seein’ everything coming together. Missed London, in fact… Did you get the postcard?”

“I got it,” John purses his lips, “Kind of a miserable picture on the front-”

“To see how far you’ve come!” Paul supplies happily.

“-but I got a laugh out of it. You seeing the docks and thinking of me.”

“I also got a bit of gossip from an old school mate of mine about this great skiffle group called The Quarrymen. Really good group apparently, managed to rustle up an old photograph of them all together on stage as well.”

John snorts, “If a picture says a thousand words, what did that one have to say?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know,” Paul answers coyly, and John’s knees could buckle at the sheer audacity of this  _ fucking tease _ to torture him with such cryptic words, “Ivan let me keep it so I could pass it on to you.”

“Didn’t take you for the blackmailing kind, McCartney,” John jokes, “Hope he didn’t drag my name through the mud with old stories.”

“Just a few tales, but your name is still very clean.”

“Ye don’t know me at all,” John says, a touch of sadness blooming at the truth of the statement. 

“Then why am I missing your company?” a brief pause passes with buzzing silence, “Can’t miss someone you don’t know.”

“Maybe,” John’s hand splays over the flat of his chest to center himself, “Maybe you have an  _ idea  _ of me, of who I am.”

“We could compare notes,” Paul suggests lightly, but something is stirring deep within John’s chest at the earnest tone, the tempting implications, “...when you get back from Paris.”

“Why wait?” John heart clambers up his throat, “Come over to Paris. You’ll like it here.”

“I- I ‘spose I could,” Paul laughs, “But I don’t want to just barge in on yer holiday, Johnny.”

His slate eyes glare at his own feet, feeling so exposed his first instinct is to retreat and slam the phone down. A tentative excitement buzzes at the nickname, though, a smile forming. His pulse points are quick drum beats that stutter wildly with the irresistible attraction taking charge. Hummingbird wings propelling feverish urgency through his veins.

“The more the merrier,” John assures, “It’s a proper invitation. Take it or leave it.”

The silence rings in his ear almost painfully before Paul speaks again, “You’d want me to jus’... pop on over to Paris?”

His skin prickles with goosebumps, “If you wanted to. I’ll be here for as long as I can get away with it. I know you’re a bright star in the music industry’s constellation, but if you had the time…Could be-” 

“I’d have four days,” Paul says. 

John’s fingers curl around the phone, “Plenty of time to ‘cause trouble. They’ve still got the guillotine here, ye know.”

Paul laughs, a burst of joyful sound that makes John’s laugh too, “Well if I wasn’t keen before…”

John smiles softly.  _ Will your girlfriend mind? If you wanted to…  _

He hears voices, muffled and vague, in the background. Paul trips up over his sentences and asks John to hold on, sounding nervous. 

“Ok, ok, I’m - John? I’ve got to hang up, I’m calling from my manager’s office and he won’t take too kindly to the bill. I can come over next week. I’ll call up again and work out the specifics.”

“Right. Ok,” John swallows, “Pleasure doing business with you, old chap.”

“Oh, indeed,” Paul drawls, softening when he adds a tad bit quieter, “Au revoir.”

He’s never heard a voice so sweet.

-

After a jittery few days of painful waiting, John finds Paul outside the designated cafe, smoking a cigarette and watching pigeons poke around under the tables in search of crumbs. Dressed in a long black coat, legs crossed at the ankle as he leans against the wall. 

“Bonjour,” John greets, smile straining to stay understated. Paul takes one last long drag of his smoke and propels himself forward, calloused fingertips don’t go unnoticed as they shake hands. 

“Oui, oui,” Paul replies, grinning, “ _ Christ _ , it’s beautiful here. Looks like a film set everywhere I look.”

John pulls his cap a little lower over his forehead, “Not accounting for the ugly extra you’ve just spotted.”

Paul laughs, “It takes  _ all sorts _ to make a film. I did bring along this thing, need a bit of practice at using it.”

He pulls back the front of his coat to show the camera strapped around his neck, he lifts up the device and points it to John. The artist makes a shocked sort of noise and brings his hand up over his face.

“Oh! Not before I’ve put on my makeup!” John titters, putting on an effeminate voice.  _ Click! _

Paul lowers the camera, eyes gleaming, “No need to paint your face, I’ve heard the French prefer things natural.”

John crosses his eyes, “How’s this?”

Another click of the camera and Paul chuckles. Somewhere nearby a fountain is running, the sound of gentle splashes of water making everything seem more dream-like. Like the fluidity of the gold in his hands is floating all around them, enveloping them in sort sort of bubble. Small birds dart from the thin branches of the dark-leaved trees, lovers lounge on the benches in each other’s laps and kiss. 

“Alright, where’s our first stop?” Paul inquires, casting a look to his surroundings, “I’ve got a map in my pocket but it’s all Greek to me. Not very encouraging.”

“I’ll say,” John smiles as they start to walk at a casual pace, “I’ll be yer tour guide. Over here you can see a church… over there...another church.”

Paul crosses his arms, “Hmm, very insightful.”

“I may as well be a local,” John strokes his chin, “A wise Parisian elder.”

“Can you give us a hand with this bloody map, then, oh wise elder?” Paul unfolds a map and flips it over.

“Don’t need it,” John snatches it from him anyway, giving it a quick look over and frowning, “Where did you want to go?”

“The tower, I suppose,” Paul adjusts the focus of his camera when they slow to a halt by a small church, “Isn’t that where you’re supposed to go?”

“Sure,” he hums in thought, squinted eyes scanning the map for a possible route before giving up and handing it back to Paul, “I might’ve exaggerated how much I know.”

“I gathered that much,” the musician’s hand takes a quick and gentle hold of John’s wrist to angle him so they can cross the street. A warm fondness swims through his body, a sweet desire to have Paul lead him by the hand wherever they may go. He imagines himself and Paul wandering up and down the Louvre, two figures in black coats blending in with the clusters of other tourists. And it’s so easy, is the thing. Just imagining getting swept up in a rosey dream with Paul. They walk along the streets taking little note of the cigarette butts littered on the side of the road in mashed up clumps, instead becoming enchanted by the little shops and stalls that line the streets. A small antique shop that smells of ancient smoke and dusty paperbacks captures their attention and they slip inside. The rows of shelves are crammed into the space with barely enough room for two bodies, but it’s comfortable. Comfortable to just explore and point out interesting artefacts and odd trinkets to each other.

“My house needs more junk like this, too empty at present,” Paul contemplates as he peers at the carving on the lid of a cigar box, “That’s why I liked your place so much. The stacks of books…  _ The bits and pieces _ , y’know? That’s what makes something a home.”

John runs the tip of his index finger over the dust gathered on the handle of an antique telephone, “You’ve got that giant piano taking up all the room.”

Paul’s smile is audible as he speaks, “It’s fab though, innit? Sitting by the windows... Dad had a fit about me spending all that money, but it’s the best company I could have.”

John sidesteps to allow Paul to squeeze past him, “I’ve heard of that,  _ paying for company _ .”

Paul scoffs, “Ye’ve got a filthy mind behind those eyes of yours.”

“Thought it was just empty space,” John leans against the peeling wallpaper in the gap between two bookcases, “An infinite void...”

“You’re smarter than you let on,” Paul carefully picks up a silver pocket watch by the thin chain attached, “And you know it.”

“Got t’ stay humble despite my genius.”

Paul extends the pocket watch to him, allowing him to see the engraving on the back. It’s an intricate floral pattern carved into the dull silver that spirals from the center outwards. John nods to show his approval. Paul’s fingers twist up in the chain as he looks it over again. He flips it over and John can see where the glass has been smashed in, all markings obscured by years of gradual fading.

“Could fix it up,” Paul thinks aloud, “What do you think?”

“I’d buy a better one,” John shrugs, “Something that’s shiny an’ new.”

“Where’s your sentimentality?” Paul chuckles, gently placing the watch back where he had found it.

“In the void,” John’s lip curls up in a half smile, “Besides, it’s not  _ my  _ sentiment, is it? Belongs to some poor bugger that sold it to put dinner on the table, probably.” 

Paul looks at him, head tilted curiously, “That’s not all bad. He loved his family enough to sell it, that’s a good thing.”

“Always looking at the sunny side of things, are you?”

Paul’s hands dip into his pockets, not breaking their eye contact as he speaks, “Not always. But if I must, I’ll do it  _ for  _ you.”

John leans a little closer, the gap between them just dusty air, “I’m secretly an optimist, just out of practice expressing it.”

Paul smiles and John may as well have rose cellophane held up over his eyes, “How’s this for practice… I’m  _ optimistic  _ that you’ll buy me dinner.”

The feeling that grips his chest is like glitter and sparks and the intimacy of standing almost nose to nose with Paul McCartney.

“Can’t argue with an expert,” John leads the way out of the store, turning to look over his shoulder, “You wanted to buy that watch?”

Paul shakes his head just as they step into the fading daylight, “I’ve seen better. I’d be more keen on that teapot with the marching band painted on it. For my Dad.”

John raises a brow, “So why don’t you buy it?”

Paul shrugs, casting a look further up the street, “Like I said before, he hates me spending money on him. Can be irritating when you just wan’ to thank the bloke for raising ya.”

“I don’t blame him,” John bites back a smile, “When his son is giving him shite gifts like  _ teapots _ .”

Paul elbows him in the arm, laughing, “Shurrup! I thought it was alright!”

John cackles wildly, pushing Paul back, “I’m only joking! No shame in doing all that… for the people you love.”

A soft silence washes over, the two men grinning ear to ear and seemingly impervious to the cold air as they walk through the streets of Paris. 

-

Dinner is pleasant blur of wine, appetisers, onion soup and fresh bread rolls with butter so good it’s almost sweet to taste. They sit at a table by a window that looks out to a cobblestone street with moonlight washing over and making lights silver and shadows a navy ink colour. The table is small, knees practically pressed together underneath. A small candle set in the middle of the table flickers and warms their faces to a pink hue. Swapping stories easily, laughter giving them a pleasant buzz and the smooth tones of a violin playing nearby making everything truly cosy and romantic. He could almost fool himself into thinking they were lovers. 

They find themselves stuffed with just enough room for a generous portion of Opera cake on a plate in the middle of the table for them to share. John accidentally jabs his fork to slot into the gaps of Paul’s, both of them giggling as they pull their utensils apart and dig into the dessert. 

“That’s Rachmaninoff playing,” Paul notes aloud, humming along with the melody that floats from a record player set up near the kitchen, “Concerto Number One.”

John hides how impressed he is, concentrating on dipping his fork into layer by layer of the cake slowly, “Is the second album going to be an opera, Mozart?”

Paul grins, “Could be. I start recording an EP when I get back home, have about half the songs written.”

“Are you nervous? Like you might not top your last effort?” John chews.

“Well, I mean, sure. But that’s the challenge in it,” Paul scoops up another forkful of cake, “And this time ‘round  _ will  _ be better... if my manager doesn’t keep butting in and making decisions about the music without me.”

John frowns, “What’s he doing messing with your work?”

Paul shakes his head, looking down at the plate between them, “Dunno. He knows best, he says. Been in the industry for a while, but it’s ‘ard work trying to get him to try something new for a change. Wants the same piano ballad fifteen times over on the same record. It’s a miracle I got as much rhythm and blues as I did.”

“That’s shit,” John leans back in his seat, shin knocking into Paul’s under the table, “Don’t suppose ye could tell ‘im to fuck off?”

Paul gives a sly smile, “Not ‘til next year when the contract is up… But he’s alright, really. Just a bit of a tosser sometimes.”

“A scathing assessment from Mister Paul McCartney,” John’s head lulls to the side, opening his mouth to speak just as Paul giggles, “What?”

“I like how you say that,” he wipes his mouth with a napkin, obscuring his smile.

“Your name?” John glances out the window in a half-hearted attempt to combat the upward curl of his lips, “Paul McCartney.”

“You say it different,” Paul folds his arms over his chest, looking at John like he’s drinking in his presence with something akin to admiration. But that’s not quite it… A rush of intrigue and fascination like silk over his skin has him thrilled. He pivots in his seat, stretching his limbs in swift motions and gestures Paul to follow. He tips the staff generously with a blind toss of notes across the counter for a young waitress to count up.

The windows of the small apartment buildings around them illuminate warmly, small pools of light against the dreary stone walls. The greedy bastard in him wants Paul to himself for the rest of the night, but more than that, it’s the hopelessly besotted part of him that hungers for it more. 

He conjures enough boldness to allow his hooded eyes to trail over Paul’s figure and amends it with the start of farewells, “Shall we turn in for the night?” 

Paul regards him with a raised brow, a split moment of an unreadable expression, before he nods in agreement. John is able to walk to Stu’s apartment building from here easily, but chooses to walk with Paul a little further in the opposite direction to accompany him on his trek to his hotel. They say their ‘good night’s at the corner of the street that the hotel practically looms over with its large and glowing presence and organise a meetup spot for the next morning. It’s a sweet feeling, to have plans in place as he watches Paul greet the doorman cheerfully as he disappears into the lobby. He’ll dream of cosy dinners and classical arrangements hummed in a voice he has become so enamoured with.

-

John and Stuart wait for the musician, reclining in their chairs as they smoke. The cafe has a messy jumble of tables scattered onto the street, but they’ve chosen to remain close to the wall where the windowsill holds an astray they can flick the burning ends of their ciggies into every now and then. Stuart has vowed to cut down on indulging in his vice, thus only holding half a cigarette between two spindly fingers. 

“Reckon we could find his record at that store I was telling you about?” Stuart asks, puffing out a curling ribbon of smoke. The morning air is crisp and cool, biting at exposed flesh. 

“Probably. Got real popular over in Britain,” John keeps his slate eyes in a casual drift over his surroundings, looking out for that familiar frame, “Dunno if it ever really took off in America. We should take him to that bar with all that American rock and blues playing. He’d dig that.”

“You’ve mentioned that a few times,” Stuart comments wryly, smile hidden behind his smoldering smoke-end. 

“Don’t make me feel more stupid than I already do,” John groans, “You and your fucking inch-long... cig.”

Stuart’s laugh is mangled with a cough, expelling smoke in stuttered clouds, “Beg your pardon?”

“You ‘eard me,  _ inchworm _ ,” John mutters deadpanned, and perks up when he spots Paul strolling over towards them, “Behave.” 

“Aye,” Stuart speaks from the corner of his mouth, “When have  _ you  _ ever followed that order?”

He neglects acknowledging Stuart’s light teasing and pushes himself up and out of his seat and walks towards Paul, cigarette still clamped between his lips.

“Aye, Paul, this is my mate from the  _ institute _ ,” he intones, clapping Stuart over his shoulder.

“He means the  _ art school, _ ” Stuart huffs, shaking Paul’s hand, “Nice to meet you, my name’s Stuart. Heard your song on the radio in a cafe the other day - ‘s really great, John just about flew out of his seat to have it turned it up.”

John grits his teeth in a strained smile, fingers swiftly jabbing Stuart’s side as subtly as he can, “Well ye know… Uh, Stu’s going to be our guide, knows his way around.”

Paul nods, “Oh, sure, yeah. That’ll be great.”

Stuart murmurs something under his breath as he turns around to stamp down and extinguish his smoke into the dirty receptacle, grinning as sly as a fox. 

“Ought t’ see that famous tower, ‘ _ the eyesore _ ’ or summat,” John suggests, watching as Paul extracts a lighter and a cigarette for himself from his coat pocket. He watches the lick of the orange flame cavort to meet the end of the fag, Paul’s lips clenched in a alluring pout as he sucks in that first drag. John’s throat goes dry.

“I’d love to,” Paul breathes out, eyelashes fluttering against the polluted air. John conceals his yearning by taking an exaggerated drag for himself, chest clenching against the sudden intrusion. 

-

There are families having picnics on blankets rolled out over the grass, lovers curled up and kissing unashamed as the trio marvel at the Eiffel tower. Try as he might, John can’t keep his attention on anything besides Paul for too long before he’s drawn in again. The sun shining down from a relatively clear sky has everyone in good spirits, little children darting around with vibrantly coloured kites sweeping across the air above on wobbling strings. It’s slushy and stupid, but John finds himself more and more enamoured with the city while Paul is here - a dream too bright to stray from. When a football rolls and collides with his boot, he smiles and kicks it gently back to a young boy with ruddy cheeks and scuffed shoes. The exchange elicits soft chimes of laughter from Paul, who turns and nudges John gently.

“I like seeing kids that carefree,” he seems shy once he’s said it, “Seeing them have it better than we did… it’s good.” 

John idles, memories of Blackpool swimming in his subconscious breaking through the surface. Holding his Mum’s hand as they walked to the fair, a few coins in his pocket to spend on games and treats. Ice-cream melting and dripping over his small fingers, the sticky sweet feeling almost mirroring how it felt to be with his Mum. 

He shifts his weight on his feet, “Yeah… Do ye ever-”

“I can take your picture in front of the tower if you like,” Stuart interjects with the offer. Paul agrees, handing him the camera and taking a few steps backwards, a slight smile and bright eyes as Stuart adjusts the focus. John stands at Stuart’s side, watching how the breeze rustles Paul’s coat and has a few locks of dark hair waving out of place. Stuart kneels down on the grass for a different angle. 

“Go on and stand next to ‘im,” Stuart urges with a wave of his hand after a few snaps, still peering through the viewfinder, “Go on.”

John blinks, looking to Paul for guidance, and the musician smiles and waves him over. He slinks over to stand at his side, shoulder to shoulder and looks into the barrel of the camera. 

“Give us a smile, Johnny,” Paul teases, bumping his hip with his own. John contorts his lip into a deranged looking smile, eyes diverted up as if trying to peer at his own brow.

Paul laughs, “Aw, isn’t he pretty?” 

“A perfect pin-up,” John supplies, settling back into a neutral expression and looking at Paul, “I offered to model for life drawing but they wouldn’t have me. Can’t imagine why.”

Paul regards him with a smirk, “Gives another meaning to a John Lennon  _ exhibition _ .”

A wicked grin ignites his angular face, “What was that about you desperately wanting to attend a show?”

Paul drives his fingers through the hair swept over his forehead, stare unwavering and glinting with flirtatious light, “I’m simply a patron of the arts.”

Such coy cadence, they both simper with eyes locked. Paul’s gaze drifts back to the camera lens, allowing John to tend to the spike of his pulse without being surveyed by such a penetrating stare. He turns back to Stu, finding solace in studying the lens instead of Paul’s arresting profile. 

Stuart springs up onto his feet again, handing the camera back to Paul, assuring he ‘got a few really great shots’.

“You look like two gods from that angle down there,” Stuart claims with a toothy grin, looking to John pointedly, “Maybe two angels from a Greek myth.”

“Or Roman,” John chips in, only slightly amused by his friend’s comparison.

“Could be Sock and Buskin,” Paul suggests, glancing between the two men, “Thanks for tha’, by the way.”

“What’s next on the agenda?” Stuart inquires, re-knotting his scarf around his neck.

“ _ I was wondering the same thing,  _ Stu,” John quips, blatantly scrutinising Stuart with irritation - though his annoyance fizzles into a hapless chuckle when Stuart simply smiles and quirks a brow in feigned ignorance. When he looks back to Paul he catches a brief confused visage before the musician lowers his eyes as if to inspect the grass underneath his feet. 

-

They visit a gallery, inspecting pieces in comfortable silences between hushed quips and jokes that flow easier than John has ever known. Stuart practices restraint, but when he strays from the two Londoners it does not go unnoticed by John. It’s a mixture of gratitude and helpless insecurity to be left with Paul with no armour to soften the heat that the musician invokes effortlessly. No one to turn to when he needs to plunge into reality. He forbids himself to get too swept up, and yet he delights in the faint brush of Paul’s hand against his, the warm press of his palm cupping his shoulder as he leans closer to murmur his critique closer to John’s ear. At the very least, Stu leaves Paul to himself lest he trip up and stoke his friend’s embarrassment like a fire. 

The day bleeds into night, the threesome taking a tiresome hike back to more familiar territory where former art student’s favourite hangout is situated in an area populated by young students with an appetite for American music. The bar is a rather small establishment, humid in a way that reminds him of The Cavern. Dark bricks covered by darker curtains and canvas boards propped up to display abstract renderings of dancing figures. Gene Vincent is blaring from a jukebox, just loud enough to rise above the chorus of voices engaging in excited conversation as people dart to and from the bar with drinks cradled carefully. They secure a high table underneath a dented saxophone that has been nailed to the wall like a religious icon while Stuart fetches them drinks.

“You remember that Swinging Cilla from the Cavern?” Paul asks, having to hover close to be heard, close enough for his chest to press against John’s side. 

“Sure, the redhead that handled the coats,” John nods, “Good voice.”

“She doesn’t sing much anymore, working as a secretary now. But she told me Rory Storm and his band are still going strong. Still wearing those fluorescent suits everywhere he goes, too. Wonder if they’ll ever come over to London.”

“Think he likes being king of Liverpool,” John says, eyes caught on the tight fit of Paul’s black shirt, “I would think touring would get exhausting after a while.”

Paul taps his knuckles on the table surface along with the pulse of the music, “You’d be right to think that. But it’s a good sort of exhausted. I guess the worst part is being lonely, y’know? I had George along for half the ride an’ the backing band were there - and they’re real great lads, but it’s jus’... I don’t know, really. It’s not the  _ band of brothers _ sort of thing you’d hope for, that’s all.”

The softness in Paul’s features harden for a blink of time, eyes studying the grain of wood in the table. The twist of empathy in his gut urges John to say something, but decent phrasing is beyond his shy tongue. All he can offer is a hum of understanding.

“I’ve never really worked with someone,” John says, “Not creatively. I mean, I’d add a few strokes to Stuart’s paintings, but that’s not really a collaboration like a Rodgers and Hammerstein setup. Point being, you can do it on your own just fine.”

A beat goes by until a fond fluttering causes John to laugh and tack on, “Hang on, that’s not true. I worked with you on that cover!” 

Paul beams, “Aye, that’s right! Dunno how much help I was, though.”

“You were great,” John assures him, “Could’ve done it yerself.”

“I’d want you to do the next cover,” Paul tells him, “Honest.”

John presses his arm over the table at his front, “Yeah? I’d do that, happily.”

Pleased, Paul nods and replies, “Good. ‘s a happy marriage we’ve got going.”

The low ceiling presses the air out of him and the dim lights obscure the subtlety he should be exercising. Instead, he marvels in pure delight. Stuart appears with three perspiring glasses full of something amber and heady. It’s a potent sort of mixture John doesn’t dare question as he tips back the first gulp with a relieved groan. When he lowers the glass, he finds Paul looking at him with hooded lids. 

A thrill zips through him, “Drink up, Macca.”

As if jolted from a daze, Paul diverts his attention to his glass and takes a long sip not unlike the way he takes those sinfully drawn out drags from a cigarette. John fights against the arousal spurred on by the imagery and acknowledges the Elvis number playing. 

“Could ‘ave been one of the first songs of his I ever heard,” John claims, imploring Stuart for a reaction, though the artist has his attention captured by an acquaintance happily chatting with him. 

“You always remember your first,” Paul teases and John cackles with his head bowed. 

“I would have remembered if Elvis was my first,” he cants his head to peer up at him, elated to find that Paul is biting back a smile with a fierce gaze directed at him. The typically poised lad is blushing, bringing his glass up to his lip in a purposeful movement that conceals the heat John’s words have incited. Still, he leans closer, sternum pressed to the table’s edge and knee nudging against John’s before retracting just enough that John would only have to flinch and they’d be flush against each other again.

“Shame,” Paul’s long digits seem to tease him just by staying how they are - wrapped around the sweaty glass, “That would have been impressive.”

John’s gaze slopes along the lines of Paul’s face, nerves smouldering in the pit of his chest, “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“That way?” Paul implores, licking over his lip and inciting riots within John’s mind.

“Being impressive,” John’s fingers grope at his glass for the cool condensation to ease the feverish heat coursing through him, “Suppose it would make quite the badge of honour… Alas, my virginity is pinned to the lapel of some busty bird in Liverpool.”

Paul hums, cheeks still tinged pink, “Well, that’s impressive too.”

John tilts his head, “Yeah, s’alright She knew how to thrust just as well as he does.”

Paul’s pupils are blown, his slight pout shiny and slick from his drink and the incessant nipping by his own incisors. John swallows the last mouthful of his drink, hip knocking into Paul’s with a deliberate moment of lingering. The music is drumming up vibrations that seem to pale in comparison to what Paul can do to him with a single look. He’s close to certain Paul is as vehemently intrigued by this banter as he is, though he can’t help but catch himself just before he falls. He toes the line, hoping to edge Paul across before he does. 

“Cat gotcha tongue?” John asks, angling his body so that he’s facing Paul.

“No, not at all,” Paul replies, hand remaining in a tight grip around his glass, “Was jus’ thinking… What badges are pinned to  _ your  _ lapel, so to speak.” 

His mouth quirks, “I’ll need another drink before I divulge.” 

“That scandalous, eh?” Paul inspects the bottom of his glass, “Better be worth it.”

“I try,” John pushes his glass towards the musician, “Enthusiastic, they call it. And skilled all the same.”

Paul collects the two vessels, an unhinged huff of laughter expelled at John’s quip, “Behave.”

He disappears into the small crowd hovering by the bar, and John has to marinate in the aftershocks of the exchange with mindful breaths. Stuart is still chatting to a thin guy with a elfin look about him, and John is hardly in the right mind to exchange small talk with a stranger now. Though, he contemplates with his eyes wandering back to the pair, there  _ is _ safety in numbers. He’ll either be a tease or just a regular mate with a wicked sense of humour. 

Introductions are made, John shaking Klaus hand and following along with an anecdote both he and Stuart are cooperatively sharing. It’s dull in comparison, thoughts still firmly set in the confines of Paul’s clothes and the melody of his words. When he returns to the table with two filled glasses, John has to strain to keep his attention set on the two artists until Paul steps into his line of vision. 

“Ta,” he takes the drink, noting that Paul has pushed up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal taunt forearms. He sucks down about half the drink in one go.

“Steady on,” Stuart nudges him, laughing, “Haven’t seen such desperation since Liverpool.”

John barks a startled laugh at the double-meaning, knocking into Stuart’s side, “Fuck off!”

Klaus, though slightly confused at the exchange, smiles brightly, “Have you ever come to visit Germany, John?”

“No, not yet. Wanted to, way back when. Tried to get this one -” he pokes Stuart’s cheek, “- to join my band and head over to Hamburg like this other group had done. He didn’t wan’ any of it, so we never went.”

“You were going to quit anyway,” Stuart points out, “You just wanted to see what that Reeperbahn was all about.”

“Still haven’t got the foggiest,” John sighs miserably, another burst of laughter following shortly after, “No ‘ard feelings, you saved me from a ‘bout of something uncomfortable that needs antibiotics, most likely.”

“You don’t regret it, though,” Paul suddenly pipes up, rim of his glass pressed to his chin, “I mean, look where you are now. It was for the best.”

“A stint in Hamburg might have been fun,” John shrugs, slowly drifting back into Paul’s orbit, “Need to incite chaos and havoc all over the map.”

“You’d incite another war,” Stuart muses.

“You might be right,” John relents with a snicker, glancing back to Paul, “It’s best I be contained, like a plague.” 

Paul doesn’t speak, concentrating on his drink and how the liquid swirls as he careful tilts the glass back and forth. Losing Paul’s attention is a tear in his ego, regret piercing through like needlepoints over his skin.  _ I’m an idiot _ . He scrambles for something to say to reconstruct the sweltering air that had existed between them. 

“I might start heading back,” Paul announces, “I can walk from here.” 

John’s heart beats in his throat, helpless as he watches Paul politely exchange goodbyes with Klaus and Stuart. He seems a duller version of himself, voice projected in an octave John hardly recognises. Like someone has switched off the light in his eyes. He stays close to Paul’s side as they file through the patrons of the bar, Little Richard ringing in his ears seconds after leaving the establishment.They walk in mirrored rhythm, sentiments John couldn’t possibly articulate weighing heavy on his tongue. Bitterly pissed at himself, he keeps the spontaneous and brief verbal exchanges to a minimum. Hope is dwindling fast. He won’t make a fool of himself,  _ he won’t _ . John watches with impending regret as deep as he can possibly fathom as Paul slows to a stop outside the hotel doors. The doorman is absent and the night is cold. The handles of the large glass doors are painted gold and Paul’s hand reaches to pull it open and John’s heart caves in, spite erupting with a dash of venom. 

“Need to call your girlfriend?” John says it like a taunt cloaked in something hopefully Paul will decipher if he cares as much as John does. 

Paul pauses, “What girlfriend?” 

“Jane Asher,” he says without bothering to hide the bitterness, “She’ll be missing her boyfriend.”

“If she had one,” Paul takes a slow step towards him, “We’ve been on a date or two, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” John’s heart thunders.

“I -” Paul considers John’s tense posture, “Why should it concern you?”

John’s chest clenches, “It doesn’t.”

An apprehensive pause, “John…” 

“Paul,” his chest puffs out, eyes boring into him.

“Did you want t’ come up? I’ve got my guitar with me.”

His face softens, the tension held in his joints easing just a fraction, “Should I?”

Paul looks towards the door, “I dunno.”

“Alright…” John says and follows close behind his companion as they walk towards the elevators.

The mechanical groan of the metal box rattles his already tested nerves, looking to Paul’s stoic expression and searching for guidance. McCartney remains seemingly unreadable until he catches John’s eye. The artist half-smiles, a desperate attempt to establish some sort of idea of where he stands that seems futile until Paul’s mask dissolves into bashful giggles. The chime sounds off, doors opening to the seventh floor and John takes in a breath like he’s emerged from underwater. He leans against the wall as Paul dips his hand into his pockets in search of his roomkey, wearing a thoughtful and soft expression. John treasures it. Stores it away for a later date. 

When Paul finally produces the key, he holds it up to marvel at exaggeratedly. All the fondness bubbles up his chest and spills over into quiet laughter, having to look away just to contain the joy inspired by being in this man’s presence. 

“Will Stuart mind?” Paul asks suddenly, key still pinched between his fingers. 

John blinks, “Why should he?”

“You came to Paris to see him,” Paul’s jaw clenches, eyes locked on the floor between their feet, “I’m not intruding on that, am I?”

The lull of the drinks hasn’t dimmed his intuition, “He’s got his girlfriend back at his place. He’s a good mate.”

Paul’s lip twitches in thought, “A Room in Chelsea Square…” 

“What?”

“The book. On your shelf, it-” he sucks on his lip and turns his attention to the door, “I know what it’s about. And you… you and Brian...”

“What about us?” it doesn’t come across as defensive and defiant, but rather breathless and gentle. 

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” his voice is a murmur that John has to lean in to hear, “I don’t need to know, but it seemed like you just up and left for Paris… and I...”

John’s heart twinges in it’s cage, “He’s my friend. I came over ‘cause I needed to get out of me head. I don’t- I don’t have mates like Stu in London… I didn’t have you there, either.”

Paul finally meets his eyes, face hardened by worry and doubt as he opens his mouth to speak again, “Could have called me up.”

“A phone call is a poor substitute,” John replies, fingers itching to smooth out the faint lines of worry on Paul’s face.

“It would have been  _ something _ ,” Paul counters, “Because I did wonder… I thought about you while I was gone.”

“I thought about you,” John echoes, “And that was the fucking problem.”

Something ticks over in Paul’s eyes, head tilting and inching forward with the smouldering gust of his exhale just enough to expand across the distance between them, “Yeah?”

“You’ve read A Room in Chelsea Square?” the corner of John’s lip quirks up.

“No,” Paul’s knuckles brush over John’s hand, “I’ve just heard some rumours.”

“Anything good?”

His eyes go half mast and glossy, “Wasn’t too pleased, thinking you might be…” 

“Taken?” John cranes his neck just slightly, abdomen heaving.

Paul drives forward and kisses him fervently, a soft sigh emitted when John’s lithe digits wind around his hips and trail up the arch of his spine as he kisses him back. Their physiques press together, breathing in rhythmic puffs that make him feel weightless. The tension, that heat that had been building and building - suddenly melting like caramel. Everything becomes golden and hazy and hot. The lush release of tension, euphoric and frantic. Paul’s fingers secure a tight hold of his shoulder blades, thumbs dipping into the tendons and massaging with firm circles. The faint taste of hot liquor on his tongue, John licks over Paul’s lower pout and follows closely with a playful nip. His hands smooth down the expanse of his back and settle in the dip at the bottom of the Paul’s spine. The soft sound of their belt buckles clinking rings in his ears and he shivers and holds the musician even closer, groin flush against his partner’s and creating unabashed friction. His lips graze over the cut of his jaw, dragging down the column of his throat. When Paul murmurs his name the vibrations sends John’s cranium spinning in dizzy ecstasy. 

A bell chimes and they split apart, John licking over his lips and chasing the taste of him as the elevator doors open a few paces away. Paul fumbles with the key and John has to hold back a pleasured whimper at the sight of it. Paul’s eyes are glazed over, mouth damp and a deeper shade of red. John’s crotch twitches with a lustful ache, tracking every movement Paul makes with carnal eyes. They slip into the room, standing in the dark for a moment before Paul can locate the light switch and illuminate the room in a warm glow. The door snaps shut behind him, Paul twisting the key and promptly returning to attend to John’s aroused state. Lennon cups his jaw with one hand, the other snaking over the swell of his arse and clenching in an appreciative squeeze. Paul holds his hips steady as he slots a thigh between his, both men spurred on to grind in slow drags. The grasp over the soft flesh of his hips tighten, Paul coaxing soft erotic sounds from John’s mouth and flicking a clever tongue over slightly parted lips. He is a docile form, trembling with feverish and primal urgency, melting into Paul’s hold. His hands grasp fistfuls of the musician’s shirt, tugging upwards to allow his hands access to press over the warm skin. Paul smiles into the kiss, peeling away and allowing the two men to breathe each other in. McCartney’s lashes sweep in a slow flutter, and John can see the thin ring of earthy colour around magnified pupils.

“Paul McCartney,” John gives a breathy simper.

“Johnny,” Paul drags his teeth over his swollen lip, John’s frame quakes, enraptured by every subtle movement he makes. Heart throbbing, blood stirring.

“You’ve had me fer months,” he breathes.

Paul looks almost smug, eyes shining, “Have I?”

“Should’ve just told me,” John bestows a kiss to the dip of his chin, “Save me from losin’ me head.”

“What should I have said, then?” Paul inquires, fingers dripping like honey up and down his back and inciting waves of goosebumps in his wake.

“That you wanted me,” John closes his eyes, mouth pressed to Paul’s jaw, “Easy as that.”

“I do want you,” Paul lowers his forehead to gently bump against John’s, the artist threading his fingers through his dark hair at the back of his head to keep him steady - to hold him there so he can absorb the moment properly. 

“So,” John swallows thickly, “Have me.”

Paul exhales a ragged breath, unwinding his limbs from around John’s body and leading him to the bedroom. It’s a plain room, John gathers that much given that his tunnel vision is set solely on the lean figure descending on top of the ivory sheets, eyes inviting him to join. John swiftly kicks off his shoes and socks, pulling up his shirt over his head as Paul does the same. His cock strains against his tight trousers, aching only slightly relieved when Paul’s hand trails over his thighs and cups his girth through the fabric. John crawls over him, hovering over and kissing him filthily. Paul’s bare torso is smooth and pale and perfect, John’s hands sliding over his skin as he mouths at sharp collarbones. 

“I don’t have anything,” Paul huffs, spine arching underneath him. John looks up to see Paul gesturing towards the bedside table. 

“That’s alrigh’,” John churns his hips to grind against Paul’s toned thigh, “It’s alright, love.”

The press of his erection has desire boiling, perspiration gathering in a thin film around his neck and over his forehead. John pulls himself down Paul’s torso, clever fingers liberating his cock as he unzips his fly and tugs his pants down over his thighs. Paul’s cock is flushed red and thick, and John is driven to attend to it in spite of the natural instinct to tease further. He wraps his fingers over his length, watching through hooded eyes as Paul props himself up on his elbows, watching John with mouth agape. He licks along the full length, stopping at the tip to mouth and suck gently. Paul’s hips stir, bucking involuntarily. A breathy whine escaping from his throat, flushed neck and raw mouth just about all it takes for John to feel his own groin shudder slightly, rutting up against the edge of the mattress.

He takes him into his mouth, free hand pinning Paul’s thigh down with a tight squeeze. He groans, tonguing at the precome smeared over the head. Warm and heavy on his tongue, he continues bobbing his head up and down, lips meeting where he has a hand wrapped around the base of the swollen length. Paul hisses in pleasure, moaning and vibrating with a pale hand eventually pressing over the back of John’s head, blunt nails scratching lightly at his scalp. John can’t combat the temptation any longer, hand dipping underneath the waistband of his jocks to grip himself and tug. Paul exhales an expletive, falling flat on his back with both hands grabbing fistfuls of the sheets. John’s name moaned like praise. McCartney’s body tremors underneath him, a strangled moan in lieu of warning. The rupture is just about the most beautiful sound John has heard in a long time, sucking a bruise on Paul’s inner thigh after he spills over his cheek.

He’s closing in on the divine release himself, starving it off just a little longer to watch Paul’s chest heave with the afterglow. 

“Up here,” Paul instructs through deep breaths and John obeys, crawling to lay on his back at his side. The musician rolls over onto his belly and reaches down to jerk him off, eyes fixed on John’s mouth. John’s lashes clench together for as long as he can stand it, giving in and opening his eyes to watch Paul dot warm kisses on his shoulder. A surge of arousal shakes him, head thrown back and jaw slack as he comes. 

“ _ Christ _ ,” John sinks into the bed with soothed muscles, the heat of Paul’s body pressed against him just about the only thing his blurry brain can comprehend. It anchors him in the best possible way.

“You look good like that,” Paul murmurs, fingertips ghosting over the jut of John’s hipbone. His sensitive cock twitches at the sensation, flesh shivering. 

“Pillowtalk?” John’s heavy head lulls to face him, stomach swooping at the sight of a pleasantly sedated Paul. 

“Why not?” his hand presses flat over John’s ribs, near enough to his thumping heart that he’s almost self-conscious about it. 

“Ideally, you’d be spread out over  _ my  _ pillows, but ‘spose this’ll do,” John hooks a needy ankle over Paul’s. The other man’s breath hitches, palm pressing firm and warm over him. 

“And you say  _ I’m _ the tease,” his voice dissolving into a giggle, “You’ve done my head in, boy.”

The artist’s heart swells, “An’ now we’re here in Paris.”

Paul’s lids droop and settle closed, peaceful smile just a soft curve of his lips, “We are indeed.”

“So,” John murmurs, “You really thought tha’ Sutcliffe an’ I had something going on and got huffy and jealous.”

Paul’s nose crinkles, shifting a little deeper into the sheets, “Wasn’t jealous… Just pissed ye had me flying out to France just to see you on him like a coat.”

John laughs, “Yeah, alright.”

Paul’s eyes open, scanning John’s face with amusement, “Get you, teasing me when you were just about to lay into me about Jane.”

A muted wave of possessiveness washes over him, rolling in closer to press their anatomies together and kiss Paul firmly, “I’d lay into you, alright.”

Paul bites down a grin, tip of his nose pressed to John’s cheek as he whispers, “That a promise?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” John whines, hips stirring a little at those amorous implications, “Sly bastard.”

“Feel like writing a song,” Paul smiles, almost sheepish, “Could use a smoke, too. How about you?”

“Yeah,” he sighs happily, “Grab it for me.”

“Thought I did,” Paul quips, peeling himself off the bed to start foraging through discarded clothes on the carpet. 

Later, John sits on an armchair by the window, legs hanging over the armrest with a cigarette dangling between his lips. Paul is sitting on the edge of the bed, guitar cradled in his arms as he picks out a riff on nylon strings. It’s light and almost Mediterranean sounding, something John could be lulled to sleep by. The window is opened just a crack, curtains barely parted sway in a slow rhythm. The light in the room is warm and intimate, washing over Paul’s bare shoulders and making them glow gold. 

“How’s this?” Paul preempts, coughing softly before he croons with a small smile.

_ “Ma belle, oh, ma belle… These are words that go together well…Oh, ma belle… I want you, I want you… I think you know by now, dadadadadahow…” _

“Forget the lyrics,” Paul laughs, “But the melody, it’s good, yeah?”

The warmth of the tone envelopes his senses, cigarette curling and spilling ash over the carpet in a moment of thoughtful silence.

“It’s really good,” is all he can say.

“Need to learn a few French words to sprinkle in, maybe a phrase or something,” Paul considers with a soft swipe of his thumb over the strings, “Used to busk and throw in nonsense French to get girls.”

John grins, “I can see tha’. Flashing those doe eyes at ‘em.”

Paul shakes his head, smiling, “ _ Ooh, ma belle… What can I say? I must find a way…” _

“... _ To sing the words you will understand _ ?” John conjures from the want held in his chest, seeing Paul relaxed and soft and almost vulnerable. 

Paul’s eyes flicker with pleasant surprise, “ _ I must find a way… to say the words I know that you’ll understand. _ ”

His slender fingers gingerly maneuver over the strings in an improvised riff. From his mused hair to the slope of his neck and all the way down those long legs, John is enchanted by him. He wants this night to stretch out as long as it possibly can, drink in Paul’s essence and delve into his mind. There is this strong heartfelt desire to know him. To truly know the ins and outs and everything burrowed in between. 

“Could just spend tomorrow right here,” John suggests with words drawn out long, “You’ll write and I’ll draw.”

Paul presses his cheek to the body of the guitar, lashes in a slow sweep, smiling as he replies, “A happy marriage, indeed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for being so wonderful while my laptop decided to 'go into a dream', so to speak. This chapter is shorter, and possibly contains many mistakes, but I've been so eager to get this thing finished and quite frankly, I'm sick of looking at it. Hope you all enjoy it, thank you for reading. I'm thisbirdhadflownx on tumblr! xxx

Paul McCartney drifts in a constant state of musical contemplation. There always seems to be a melody rolling in his skull, making his fingers twitch towards the strings of a guitar or the ivories of a piano. There’s always a tune to be hummed and a beat to nod along to. There is an unwavering curiosity, a thirst to know as much as he can, a palpable purpose radiating from his restless form. John observes him with a kind of awe, pen lazily tracing the shape of his mouth on cheap hotel stationary. The pair are in the small lounge in the musician’s hotel room, half-dressed and working at a languid pace. Paul sits with his guitar, operating it much like an extension of himself, strumming a series of chords and mumbling nonsense lyrics. 

“I don’t mind that one,” John comments, “Needs a bit more energy, though.”

“Like this?” Paul plays the riff a tad faster and the artist nods, “Might be alright.”

He plays it over again and sings along, “ _ When I call you up your line’s engaged, so now I’ve got to act my age and try… to find the reasons why…But it’s so hard, dear…You don’t know how hard it is... _ ” 

John dots along Paul’s jaw lightly, drawing in the shadow accumulating from two days unshaven, “A recent one?”

“Yeah,” Paul hums.

“And who was that charming bird you were calling up?” he teases, eyes not drifting from the careful arch of Paul’s brows.

“Jane,” Paul answers, and when John looks up he finds the guitarist smirking. John huffs, flipping him a crude gesture with a lazy hand and returns hastily back to his drawing, biting back a smile.

“You’ve got some nerve, son,” John chuckles, heart drumming up a few beats out of place when he hears Paul’s quiet and pleased laughter. 

“How about this one again?” Paul begins, stretching out his digits over the frets carefully and begins to strum and sing the lyrics from last night with more confidence. He adds another lyric, eyes boring into the placement of his fingers as he sings, “ _ I'll get to you somehow, and until I do, I'm telling you, so you'll understand...oh ma belle… _ ” 

“Telling ‘em what?” John picks up the tea cup that had been delivered along with a room service breakfast that morning. 

“ _ I love you _ ,” Paul licks over his lower lip, “What else?”

John’s heart curls around the concept, holding it for a tight moment of wishful thinking before letting it succumb to the dreary hollow of cynicism, “Nothing else quite sells like a love song, eh?”

Paul picks at the strings, “Guess so, people have always celebrated it. It’s a universal thing. Art might not exist without it.”

John tears off the portrait of Paul from the notepad and gently lays it aside, settling his pen over another ivory page to scribble on, “And you know what you’re singing about?”

Paul keeps his attention mostly fixed on conjuring another melody, “Hmm?”

The pen slides across the page slowly, dipping down as he begins to form a cartoon figure, “You know what you’re singing about? Love?”

Paul looks up at John, “What d’you mean by that?”

John half shrugs, a expression blank, “I don’t think I know what it is to be in love. I thought I had it when I was a lad, with Cyn. Maybe it was, I dunno. Or maybe I’m waiting for it to really hit and change everything.”

“It doesn’t have to change everything,” Paul’s fingers slide across the strings.

“But that’d be something,” John muses shyly, “Have everything you know just… not matter, you know? Have that one thing be more important than anything you were worrying about before.” 

“You’re an idealist,” Paul smiles, “You’ve shown yer true colours now.”

A slight stirring of embarrassment reigns in his formerly relaxed posture, “But that’s how it is, right? Or it’s how it  _ should  _ be.”

Paul begins to strum a semi-familiar tune, head tilting to rest his cheek on the body of the guitar, “Maybe…  _ Do ya, do ya, do ya wanna dance? _ …” 

“Great track,” John comments, immediately latching onto memories of the old favourite playing quietly at a dimly lit party Cynthia had dragged him to. He had been brooding in the corner for most of the night. He had promised her a dance before they retreated to an unattended bathroom for a quickie and he found himself beginning to get caught up in the romance of just swaying with her. He had been drinking himself brainless after his mother died and Cynthia’s love and patience was an anchor to the softness of the world. The faint hope he used to hold onto.  _ Maybe I’ll marry this girl _ , he had thought as the music gradually faded,  _ maybe that’s what I need to be happy and loved again _ . 

“Yeah, it is,” Paul sighs happily, knuckles knocking against the wood of the instrument as he fumbles after a tricky chord to ease the melody into something original.

“Your debut measures up to anything Bobby ever did, ye know,” John compliments with tenderness warming his voice.

Paul’s mouth twitches into a poorly concealed smile, “Flatter me all you like, Lennon, doesn’t mean you’ll get me into that bed before I’ve finished this song.”

“That bed, specifically?” John grins, “I meant it, though.”

The musician seems to be sporting a slight blush when he adjusts his position on the couch, “I believe ya, even if you don’t believe a word of what I say about your art.”

“I’m a seasoned music critic, myself,” John explains, nasal voice taking on a pretentious-posh lilt in teasing, “I’ve written many a scathing article about The King’s last few records.”

“I’ll bet you can be  _ quite  _ scathing,” Paul laughs, “I don’t give a toss about those critics though.”

“What if it’s praise, like in just about every article I’ve ever read about you?” John questions, abandoning his current drawing to retrieve his portrait of Paul to mend the shape of his nose.

“That’s alright then,” he smirks, “Keeping tabs on my career, are you?”

“I’m a fan of your work, McCharmley,” John shades in further under the sharp line of his jaw, “An admirer, if you like.”

“I do like that,” Paul affirms, leaning over to scribble a note on one of John’s discarded pages, “Think we should go somewhere, explore a little bit more. That jazz place you mentioned sounded great.”

John nods, “Alright then.” 

“I’d go mad stuck inside all day,” Paul stands up to lay his guitar back in its case and stretches out his arms, looking over his shoulder to meet John’s stare.

“The difference is that I don’t mind going a bit mad,” his eyes trail over the exposed hollow of Paul’s neck, the stubble clinging to his cheeks making John’s throat dry. 

“Course you mind it,” Paul dismisses with a chuckle, “Come on, now. I’ve got spare clothes you can wear.”

“Gee Paul, when I said I wanted to get under yer clothes I didn’t mean it like that,” he teases as he meanders over to the bedroom to rustle through the contents of the other man’s luggage. Paul files into the room, smiling brightly as he does up the buttons on his shirt and fixes his collar into a neat fold. 

John extracts a knitted cream-white jumper, the material feeling heavy and soft in his hands. As he pulls it over his head he notes how the fabric smells faintly of Paul. That cosiness mixed with a sharp cologne. The shape of the jumper must sit differently over Paul’s figure, he straightens out the fabric over his front with a gentle tug. The sleeves stretch out a little longer than his arms and fall just past his wrists, the hug of the material around his chest feels warm and a little tight - an ever present reminder that he’s wearing another man’s clothes. He likes it possibly more than he can articulate.

-

There’s something glittery and grand about strolling through the streets of Paris with Paul. Something about the soft clips of their footsteps and the heaviness of each flirtatious comment. He drinks in the sight of the musician standing under warm lamplight with a cigarette between his fingers and a starry-eyed smile as a trumpet player standing on a street corner starts to play a tune that must be familiar to him. When he isn’t being coy and playfully alluring, he is the embodiment of warm joy and soft music and soothing calm that John can’t pull away from. Their banter evolves the more they learn about each other, the more shared experiences they uncover as they relay memories and opinions. And every sharp edge John possesses is eased with Paul’s tranquil understanding, and every soft musing rustling within the depths of his consciousness is inflamed because he can see it mirrored in the lyrics Paul writes and the melodies he invents. 

And maybe he’s being too eager, restless hands running over Paul’s arms as they slip into the hotel elevator to make up for all the time lost to exploring. Frankly, he might even be happier here, pressing his body against Paul’s back and whispering teasing comments into the shell of his ear as his fingers curl over the dip in his waist. Paul leans into him, stifling giggles as the elevator rattles a little on their journey upwards. Somehow he knows just how to render him brainless, a vessel of pure lust and desire with vision and purpose fixated on him alone. Nothing compares to him. A waitress (who looked like a less mumsy Alma Cogan) with decent english and lingering looks had hovered over them during dinner with poorly hidden attraction directed to Paul when it became obvious that John was utterly disinterested. And with that dazzling charm and those dreamy eyes, he had her practically glowing and giggling while John sat there with a bitten tongue and detached manners. Still, momentary jealousy could be cast aside in the small hints that followed. A casual nudge of his shoe to his, an impish smile, a habitual direct glance at his mouth - Paul communicates his desire in shadows. He’s far too eager to slip into the bed again, to strip articles of clothing (he lays out Paul’s jumper over the armchair carefully) and murmur pleas and praise into his skin. He watches Paul take him into his mouth, plush lips wrapped around the head and every nerve ending fires off electric sparks. Every point of contact conjures blazing heat and unbelievable pleasure. 

Just moments before he drifts off, Paul murmurs that he was nervous about sucking him off - he had never done that before. A blink of shock has him a little speechless, emotion washing over like he’s about to laugh or tear up or both at once. He feels raw and dizzy with affection, arm thrown over Paul’s waist and lips pressed to his neck, not exactly sure why the admission is stirring him like it is. 

“Yeah?” is just about all he can say, voice wavering a little. 

“Yeah,” Paul’s fingers lazily stroke over his hair, “I don’t… I’m not really experienced. Had handjobs with actors in Liverpool, but nothing like this.”

“When did you know?” John asks softly as Paul rolls onto his back.

“I- I still don’t, in a way. It’s not something I analyse,” his eyes are half-open and seem to be watching the air rather than anything else, “Hadn’t really thought about it until I started getting looks from other guys around the theatre. I used to go to shows fairly often, I’d take the ferry over to see ‘em and I’d chat with the actors afterwards sometimes.” 

John is swimming in glimpses of him, from the small anecdotes to the scent of his sweat in the dips of his figure to the fractions of emotion that slip through the screening mesh of his defences. He watches his profile, ignited by moonlight streaming through the window, and wonders what else sits beneath the surface. A great monolith of the unknown stands between them and all John wants to do is break it down to bits and know him completely. For better or worse, all he can do is chip at it slowly. Piece by piece. 

“What made you go for it?” he slides his hand over the space between their bodies.

Paul seems surprised by the question, mouth opening without an answer to fill the silence for a few beats, “I dunno what it was. This one fella, I dunno…I liked him a lot, really great looking guy, a little bit like Tony Curtis. Just about my age too but he had been doing this sort of thing since he was a kid, so he seemed so much cooler. So, uh, we had a few talks along the way and one night he took me backstage and showed me ‘round these great props and costumes. And I just had this feeling, y’know? Like he was going to kiss me or  _ something  _ and I wouldn’t really mind it. Like how it felt with you at the start, I ‘spose.”

“It was alright?”

“Ha, well, yeah. And it was fucking terrifying,” Paul closes his eyes, “I just sort of pushed it aside as much as I could. I like girls, so I didn’t really know what it was, ye see. I would think about it like, ‘I just got off with a mate, that’s all it was’. Wasn’t ‘til I started hanging around more actors an’ such that I figured out I might be a bit…”

“A bit of both?” John brushes his knuckles over Paul’s arm, “Like me?”

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s uh, a strange thing to talk about, really.” 

John hums, “I won’t push it. Jus’ want t’ figure you out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Paul says it like a reassurance. John takes one last sweeping glance over his body and then lets his eyes fall closed to drift off. 

-

Their time in the airport is spent mostly in a strange daze of withheld affection and questions lingering. John, Paul and Stuart wait by the large windows and discuss Eduardo Paolozzi and Jean Dubuffet. Every now and then John will catch Paul’s eye and something will sparkle between them. They had barely snuck a deep kiss at lunch with Astrid and Stuart when the other couple had been putting dishes away in the kitchen. Small touches and pointed looks, that’s what they share now. A far cry from the exchange they had in the shower that morning, but there is something quite sweet about it. It floats in the undercurrent of their little gathering, possibly more overt then they intend to be. He feels like a teenager, in the best way. 

The flight is called and Paul has to leave. John has his own flight back to London in a few hours, which might be a relief. He’s not sure he would be able to withstand being so close to Paul for so long while strapped down to a bulky chair and expected to behave. 

Goodbyes are exchanged, polite and warm, “No tears, luv, I’ll see ye in a few.”

“I’m not the one t’ be worried about,” Paul grins, “Unless I’m bored to tears on the flight.”

“Can’t be bored with those flight attendants walkin’ up and down,” John smiles, “Could just write a song, Mozart.”

“I could,” Paul looks to his feet, “And maybe you can design the next cover.”

“I don’t know what it’s going to sound like,” John watches on as Paul lifts up his satchel and pulls the strap over his shoulder.

“Hmm,” Paul meets his eyes with a thoughtful expression, “Just think of Paris.”

With his heart twinging in his chest, he tilts his head, “Should I?”

Paul gives him a curious look before settling back into that charming smile, “Well, I will be.”

The significance of the words stir him further, love blooming from the pit of his chest and up to his eyes. It’s a promise he will keep, always. 

He watches as Paul walks away and Stuart claps him over the shoulder, “Think he’s got you good, Johnny.”

John can barely conjure up an agreement, just a small noise in his throat to indicate he’s somewhat present in the moment. The next few hours are just infinite minutes rolled into lonely eternities. 

-

Sometime between the flight and ending up in Paul’s lounge, the musician had almost finished mentally composing a song - a feat John deemed quite impressive, and though the urgency to touch still burned he was content to sit in the old armchair and watch Paul’s fingers work over the piano keys. 

“ _ Step inside love, let me find you a place… Where the curse of the day will be carried away by the smile on your face _ …” Paul starts off softly and then bursts into a lively number - fingers dancing over the ivories, “ _ Step inside love and stay! Step inside love! Step inside love! I want you to stay! You look tired, love, let me turn down the lights. Come in out of the cold, love... and rest your head on my shoulder and love love love me tonight…”  _

John grins, nodding along, lifting himself from his seat and moving over to lean over his shoulder, “It’s great.” 

“Not too much of a show tune, is it?” Paul asks.

“Eh, now that you’ve got me thinking about it-”

“Is it utter shite?” he presses down a few experimental key progressions.

“Lay off, you know it’s fab,” John pokes the back of his head playfully, “Could tone it down if you think it needs it.”

Paul hums the chorus again, “I imagined there would be a whole band, trumpets and the lot. Maybe that’s too much? Jus’ seems a bit bare without it.”

“Slow it down, then,” John leans up against the window, starting to itch for a cigarette.

“Nah, that won’t work. Needs to be joyous in those bits. Like, ye want that person to  _ step inside love _ , ‘cause that’ll make you both happy. It’s a big, bright sort of thing.”

“Ah,” the artist frowns, thoughts straying off course as he searches for a lighter, “Does it have to be  _ that  _ big and bright?”

“Eh, don’t think the studio will let me have a band in there anyroad. Might have to sacrifice that dream,” Paul clicks his tongue, “There’s a lighter in my coat pocket, just in the hall, love.”

“ _ Love _ ?” John teases, poking Paul’s ear as he breezes past and continues the conversation as he pokes around in the folds of fabric of the coat hanging on the wall, “Can’t be impossible, though. Getting that band, I mean. You’re the star, aren’t ye?”

“Nah, it’s some other band. Peter doesn’t give a toss about little ol’ me, I might squeeze a flute out of the budget, but that’s about all I’ll get for now. How about this?”

Another run of the song plays from the living room, just as John’s fingers brush over something metal and cool. He pinches on the object and pulls it out, surprised to find that he’s holding a pocket watch. It’s the one from the small shop in Paris. It is still the same dull silver, the glass still preserved in its half-broken state. He can hear a soft ticking sound when he lifts it closer to his ear, like a tiny heartbeat. The piano plays and adoration bursts through the seams as he carefully places it back in the pocket, finally finding the lighter and returning to the room to grab a cigarette to light. 

“That’s alright too,” John comments, flicking the lighter as he returns to the window, “Why didn’t you tell me you bought that pocket watch afterall?”

Paul’s fingers still over the keys, looking shy as he retracts his hands into his lap and turns to face John, “Oh, I was, uh, going t’ get it cleaned up...for you, actually.”

“Oh,” the curtains in his mind part to reveal a burst of vibrant warmth, it spreads underneath his skin, “You were?”

Paul laughs, ducking his head down and resting his fingers back onto the keys, “It’s a bit embarrassing, but I just noticed you have all these things in your flat and I… I thought you might like it. I’m not great with gifts. Never know what t’ get people. You were right about that teapot, terrible present, really. So ye see how- well anyway… I saw how you looked at it and thought it might be alright.”

“You’re a bloody sap,” a slim stream of smoke is billowing up from his burning cigarette as he grins at Paul, his own cheeks feeling hot as his heart drums quick beats, “Feel like a bit of an arse for not get-”

“Aye, none of that. Really, I might have talked myself out of it if you hadn’t found it,” Paul chuckles, face flushed.

“Thank you,” John says earnestly, taking a drag before the entire smoke starts to disintegrate between his fingers, “It’s great.”

Paul nods, playing a softer tune as John watches him with blazing fondness. He can feel it in the hinges of his jaw, set tight as if he’s subconsciously preventing himself from allowing an endless flow of romantic prose from spilling over. He can feel it in the curl of his ribs over his heart, the slight tremble in his knees and in the magnetic pull drawing him closer. He hovers and observes, careful not to spill ash onto the pristine ivories. 

“Sounds like Blue Moon,” Paul bends forward and croons, “ _ Blue moon… you saw me standing alone… _ ” 

John had loved that song, playing Elvis’ record on a loop and every time that track played he felt comforted somehow. Wistful and romantic, scribbling poetry about an emotion he hadn’t yet discovered. Something airy and heavy all at once cradles his heart as the words seep in.  _ Without a dream in my heart...Without a love of my own… _ His hand reaches out to touch Paul’s arm gently, slowly leaning forward to press a kiss over his mouth, chaste and sweet. He pulls an inch away but halts his movement when Paul chases after his lips. All those unspoken words exchanged in the sweet press of John’s tongue to Paul’s teeth.  _ Someone I really could care for... _

“All this ‘cause I got you a daft old pocket watch?” Paul laughs into the kiss, “It’s jus’ a little souvenir, y’know.”

John pulls back a little, studying Paul’s bright eyes, “You know what it is.”

The musician tilts his head, the cheek in his expression fading, “Guess so.”

-

_ Just think of Paris. _

As if John could ever do anything else. He already misses it, the portion of time full of intimacy and understanding. He struggles to represent it in any work he does. Rough sketches and splatters of acrylics over a canvas fail to capture Paul in Paris. Nothing he does satisfies the drive to create something worthy. Everything is stale in comparison. He thinks it over, smoking a cigarette in his studio with the windows open and an advanced copy of Meet the Temptations that Brian had sent him playing. The pocket watch sits on the couch beside him, ticking away, the cracks in the glass running jagged over the face of the clock. He studies the engraving, patterns swirling in his mind, and then flips it over to inspect the glass again. Ideas sprout, just rosebuds of possibilities. He thinks he has enough by the time he picks up the phone and dials Paul’s number.

-

“So, I’m standing inside of it?” Paul echoes the idea, the pocket watch sitting in his palm. John is in the studio, producers having gone on a lunch break, and Paul is perched on a stool with his guitar sitting in lap. There are cords and wires running like vines over the floor and pages scattered at Paul’s feet with scribbled notations.

“Right, we can make it look like you’re behind the glass. Not going t’ shrink you down like Alice, mind you, just have to stand you in front of a giant clock - the numbers can be flowers - and then put a screen of cracked glass over it. Have you looking a little moody perhaps, ‘cause it’s like you’re stuck,” John explains with enthusiasm. 

Paul squints, envisioning the proposed cover, “You think I should be moody?”

“Doesn’t matter. You could lean over with your arms on the hands if they’re quarter past nine,” John demonstrates pretending to prop up his elbow on an imaginary flat surface in front of him, “I can paint the background on a wall or a sheet, how about it?”

“Think it’s great,” Paul smiles, nodding, “Reckon I’ve got ‘til the end of April to finish this off, might have to do it up before then.”

“It’ll be great,” John promises, “Could call up Astrid to come over and take the photos. She does these great portraits, you remember ‘em.”

“I do,” the musician strums a light chord, “It’ll be fantastic.”

John steps forward and runs his fingers over the strings, “Can’t do much about that unfortunate face, though.”

Paul scoffs, pulling back his hand and changing the position of his fingers over the frets to create another chord for John to play as he lazily moves his wrist so his fingers flick up the strings. The room is so quiet, shut tight with plain off-white walls surrounding them. He wonders if the novelty of the space has worn off yet, if Paul really is as at ease and cool as he appears to be in this environment. Living his dream. 

“I only joke,” John chuckles, “They put works of art behind glass, ye know.”

He grins wickedly at his own sappy words, hand lifting to rest on the dip in the guitar’s body - fingers slipping in between the back of the instrument and the front of Paul’s shirt. The other man recoils a little, head whipping around. John follows his eyes to the glass window at the front of the room where the producers would sit behind.

“What?” John challenges, “You said they left for-”

“Ssh, come on, John,” Paul exhales, eyes darting down at notes at his feet, “Help me with this bit, will you?”

John pulls back his hand, “Before they put  _ me  _ behind the glass?”

Paul shakes off a slight smile, “Something like that.”

John feels a mix of enthralment and slight fear. He bends down to scoop up the papers, “What did you need help with?”

“Nothing, actually,” Paul admits, “Just listen to this. See what you think of it.”

“Won’t ever say no to that,” John shifts his weight on his feet, “As long as I get a cut of the fortune.”

“Seems fair,” Paul replies sarcastically and starts to sing. John listens with eyes focused on the way Paul’s mouth wraps about words of love.

-

It’s a tentative arrangement. The portions of the day they can spend together are taken advantage of, not exactly to the extent John would like. But he won’t complain about it. He finds himself buzzed and electric during those pop-ins to the studio where Paul will usually be hovering over a piano with headphones hanging around his neck. Other times, the musician will bounce up to the front door of his flat and the two of them will drink (tea or alcohol, it depends) and talk. Paul never stays the night, something that  _ does  _ bother John. He’ll sometimes stir awake in the early hours of the morning to find his lover gone, only his impression in the wrinkled sheets remaining. 

His popularity has spiked upwards following an interview for a pop culture magazine. The interviewer was a personable lady in a powder blue collared dress who seemed to delight in the sharp edge of his wit. The photographs taken for the piece are a tad mortifying, taken inside his studio with the midday light pouring through the windows. He’s blank faced with slightly squinted eyes staring down the camera as his hair glows auburn. His honesty (with hints of self-deprecation) and insightful stream of consciousness seems to resonate with readers, and prompts an uprising of interest in his work. Famed art dealer and gallery owner, Robert Fraser, meets with Brian to discuss John’s work and the potential for new pieces to be displayed in his gallery during the summer. 

Meanwhile, Paul has finished up his EP and, after some minor tidying up, it is released (with the pocket watch cover) to the masses. His tour is being organised as the steady climb of his EP,  _ Step Inside Love _ , is observed with baited breath. Four original songs and one cover (Blue Moon). John feels a twist of anxiety at the prospect of it failing, his own heart entangled in each chord and verse. He’s so emotionally invested that when it peaks at the #16 spot on the charts for little over a week, he feels slightly gutted. It’s no small feat but it doesn’t feel like enough. Regardless of John’s personal disappointment, whatever Paul may be feeling doesn’t cease the energised efforts to continue to race around and accomplish as much promotion as he can. It all spurs him on further, a steely determination that has him couped up in the studio for longer hours as he storms through the arrangements for his second album. 

In the meantime, something gives way, the simmering of opportunity finally bursting when Brian picks up the phone to call up an acquaintance that holds a highly regarded position at a studio working on the post production of the second Pink Panther film. A friendly suggestion with that notorious posh twang in his voice that commands respect is enough to have Paul’s  _ Ma Belle _ appear in the film. A burst of enthusiasm from the UK public pushes the EP up to the #10 just in time for the second UK tour.

And still, the intimacy they have remains. The dull ache grows heavier the longer time stretches between their phone calls and visits, like the bond they have formed has burrowed too deep to ever be forgotten. 

-

**November, 1964**

They are celebrating nothing and everything in the lounge of Paul’s home, music and drinks and heated kisses on the couch. They fall into the blazing habit of physical affection more often these days, hands running over the soft fabric of custom made shirts and tight fitting trousers. Belts unbuckle, zips are tugged down. An Etta James record is spinning in the shadowed corner. 

“Have me,” John murmurs into Paul’s mouth. 

Paul swallows hard, fingers threading through his hair as his hips buck up to press into John’s crotch, “Yeah, I want to.”

“Mm?” John exhales, forehead dipping down to kiss his sternum. Paul’s breath hitches, leg curling around the back of his knees and pulling the artist closer.

“So much.”

The room is glowing in navy tones when they enter, the bed is unmade and a guitar is sitting on a stand on the other side of it. John captures Paul’s pout between his lips and kisses and falls deeper and deeper. Losing track of himself, but never of Paul. He is the beginning and end of everything in these moments. He lays down on his back and Paul hovers over him, slotting between his thighs with hands working up and over his knees to keep them steady. 

His fingers work over the buttons, slipping underneath soft fabric and tugging them off. His mind is just a sizzling hot pan of desire as they grind dirty and desperate.

“Got t’ open me up, first,” John instructs, wet hot kisses pressed to his jaw before Paul sits back up and reaches over to the bedside table, hand rustling through the drawer and producing an unopened bottle of lubricant.

Paul’s long fingers, perfect perfect perfect fingers, glinting with the stick sheen. He slides in the first finger, John coils up a little. A tender kiss to his thigh settles him down. 

“You tell, you have t’ tell me when it feels-” Paul whispers, eyes dragging slowly over John’s quivering frame. 

“Keep going like that,” John instructs gently, “It’s alright, love. You won’t hurt me.”

And what Paul lacks in confidence is made up with the maddening tenderness of it all. The burn as the stretch is tested with a second digit. Paul hovers over him like an angel reaching through the clouds. He feels exposed and raw and so fucking good. 

His mind spirals further when Paul inserts himself slowly, sinking deeper inside of him as John’s mouth goes slack and eyes flutter open. Everything is hot and his body shivers with it. Goosebumps form over his flesh as Paul pulls back slowly, carefully, and plunges forward again and again in a tentative rhythm. His hips buck up, chasing the fullness. Head thrown back, clawed hands searching for sheets to bunch up in fists or Paul’s arms to hold in a tight and steadying grip. He feels himself present in every inch of space in the room. His body splayed out for Paul, and Paul fucking into him with murmured praise. 

“Christ, yeah, like that,” John whines, brushing the sweaty strands of hair from his forehead and licking the perspiration from his upper lip. Muscles contract, tension building and building and he’s rendered mindless and open-mouthed as he reaches the peak of everything. Paul reaches out and jerks him off, whimpering nonsense with a bowed head. He spills over, reaching climax just as John is stuttering his name in breathy whines. The rhythmic motions falter for a few seconds, but it’s perfect. Everything is perfect. Paul is… It cracks like thunder and zips white hot through his nerves like lightning as he comes. 

Blurry minutes pass, clouded thoughts and vivid pleasure. Paul’s weight is at his side, their mess still sticky against his taut stomach and awareness seeps back one breath at a time. 

_ I do love him _ . It’s simple and unfathomable. The truth of it has the impact of oceans battering against rocks for centuries condensed to a single second. 

They fit and complement each other in such an effortless way it feels like cosmic fate and incredibly fortunate happenstance at the same time. And it’s more than that, it’s this feeling caught in his chest and sits in his throat that never leaves him. Like he’s found home in another person. 

-

_ When the skies are not so blue _

_ There is not much left for me to do _

_ Just think of something new to say to you, ooh _

_ Oh, words just stay on the tip of my tongue _

_ People say I'm lowly _

_ Only you know that's not true _

_ You know I'm waiting for a chance _

_ To prove my love to you _

Paul’s second album plays as John falls asleep on the couch in his studio, every word echoing back into the emptiness of his lonely flat. Paul would be performing tonight, would be singing out to thousands of adoring fans and John would have been there too if work hadn’t gotten in their way again. And he wonders, selfishly, if Paul could ever be as enraptured by him as he is by music. 

It’s terrifying to think about, to consider that his feelings run so deep and strong already that he would sacrifice the secure to dive further into the unknown. But Paul is someone he  _ knows _ . If he could fall into bed with him every night, well, that would be bliss. It would be  _ home _ . The word runs through his mind in an unwavering circuit. Every syllable that Paul’s voice sings is met with fondness and yearning. The deeper he falls, the harsher the burn. Paul is the warmth that will send his skin blazing, heart aflame. 

-

**April, 1965**

There is no routine, there is no firm schedule to follow, but shared hours are vital enough to them to be created nearly every day. Studio visits, home visits, phone calls and gallery nights. They become intertwined in every corner of each other’s lives. John learns enough guitar chords to play on a record of his (a little clumsily, but Paul insists it’s great) and he is relied on for an honest opinion for nearly every tune. Similarly, John deems Paul the only worthy critic of his work and bounces ideas back and forth in their discussions. John sees Paul in concert, sandwiched between hordes of teenagers screaming their lungs out as he plays. Paul visits galleries with John, the two of them partaking in the London night scene, arriving separately and leaving together.

The months pass by like time inside a dream, the slow days followed by a rapid fire succession of weeks filled with paint fumes and music and Paul. 

Golden Paul sitting at his piano at sunset, voice a little hoarse from recording at the studio all day. Silver Paul sprawled over the bed under moonlight, sweat-damp skin gleaming and hooded eyes fixed on his. Kaleidoscope Paul, wearing John’s floral shirt as he leans against the bar at an exclusive club in SoHo and winks at John when he catches him staring. Even in quiet thought he manages to radiate a distinct and vibrant aura. 

A new year passes by and Paul gifts him the mended pocket watch and tapes of unreleased songs. Paul mentions offhand that he had the watch fixed a fortnight before the Christmas holiday. John had Stuart and Astrid send over large prints of the photographs of the two of them standing in front of the the Eiffel Tower and took them to a Brian-approved department store to have them displayed in elegant frames and have it all wrapped professionally in glossy red paper with silver ribbon. 

The words they don’t exchange seem to exist in the comforting presence of the pocket watch on his bedside table, glinting with a new shine in the morning light. It’s all blissful, edging closer to something bigger than they are. 

-

He wakes and blinks with heavy lids, cheek pressed to the pillow as the cold morning air seeps cruelly into his exposed skin. There’s a warmth beside him and without much thought he scoots closer towards it as his lucidity slowly crawls up and over a dream he’s already forgotten. Maybe it had been the grey light of the sky in Blackpool, his mother just a vibrant speck of red in the distance. Or maybe it had been a dreary scene back at his old flat, burning furniture to stay warm. Warmth... A quiet sound pulls him out of soft sleep and when he opens his eyes again he can see Paul at his side.

“Morning,” he whispers. He’s pale and beautiful and angelic, the blankets pulled up to his chin.

_ You stayed _ , John swallows through a dry throat, “Could do with a warm cuppa.”

Paul smiles sleepily, rolling further into John’s space, “Me too… Just give me a mo’, still comfortable here.”

The fog is lifting, John’s body warming with affection, “Would be more comfortable with tea.”

Paul chuckles, “Mm, yeah, I’ll get to it. Lazy git.”

They both smile at each other. The fuzz of sleep fades slowly and eventually they both rise to gather layers of clothing. Paul makes them tea and John smacks the heat back to a start and pulls socks over his bare feet so the kitchen tiles don’t sting with cold when he pads across them to sit with Paul for breakfast. 

Paul has the newspaper in front of him, scanning the small print for articles of interest. John scrapes butter and a small dollop of honey over their toast, movements mechanical and drowsy as he becomes more awake. This is their first morning-after they have ever spent together and it feels so long overdue. 

“Christ, America is fucking scary, innit?” Paul huffs, brow furrowed. John catches a glance at the article, blurry vision just managing to make out ‘Selma’. 

“Not for us,” John points out bitterly, taking a bite from his toast, “It won’t end, either. It’ll go on for the rest of their lives, and their kids too, if nobody fucking does something.”

“Things could change sooner than that,” Paul sets the paper aside, “They  _ should _ .”

“Politicians don’t care about that unless a healthy percentage of voters do,” John tugs the paper over to his side of the table and squints at the front page.

“John, you’re blind as a bat,” Paul huffs, amused, “Jus’ get your glasses, you left ‘em in the lounge.”

“Can’t be fucked getting up,” John groans and leans back in his chair, “You’ve got anywhere t’ be today?”

Paul licks over the spot of honey at the corner of his mouth, “Meetings with Peter and then dinner with a friend. I could meet you at his gallery thing tonight? Robert Fraser, you know the one.”

John nods, “Alright. Tell Peter t’ get fucked for me.”

“God, if only I could.”

“You’re not gonna sign with ‘im again, are you?”

Paul sighs, pained, “I really don’t know. There’s this fella, Andrew Loog Oldham, he manages the Stones an’ seems to be interested in business talk. He’s setting up his own label for London musicians… Could be alright. Would have to do a bit of investigating first.”

“Andy’s a hustler,” John’s nose wrinkles with mild disgust, “And he’s proud of it. Just likes getting paid to peacock around London.”

“The Stones aren’t doing too bad, though.”

“They haven’t broken into America,” John points out and tears off a piece of toast to pop into his mouth, “Not properly, anyway.”

“They could,” Paul counters, “Maybe it’s just a matter of the right song, y’know?”

John shrugs, “Could be, but I still wouldn’t trust that kid. Barely emerged from teenagehood and he already thinks he can snatch Paul McCartney.”

Paul picks up his tea, “Not sure I can afford to be picky. Maybe Peter will ease up, who knows. He’s not terrible.”

“You can afford better standards for yerself.”

Paul smiles, “I’ll get there, eventually.”

“I mean it,” John presses on, “Shouldn’t be shy about it. Hell, tell him that Andrew is trying to poach ye. If he gives a fuck, he’ll negotiate.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Paul shakes his head, “I’m not being shy, just sensible.”

“Nothing sensible ‘bout it. There has to be someone better.”

“I dunno if I can risk that, not now. I’m Peter’s biggest artist now, I can’t switch over to being second fiddle to the Stones.”

“They’re alright, but you could beat ‘em. You’re the greatest fiddler I know.”

Paul bites down a chuckle, “Better is relative. And they seem to know how to use the press and drum up publicity.”

“And?”

“Peter’s just been on about getting better press, and more of it. Got me thinking, is all.”

“About?” John dips a torn off piece of crust in a small dab of honey left on Paul’s plate.

“About what I’ve got to do to, I dunno,” Paul shrugs, “To get better. To get to a point where I can have that total freedom in the studio. More hours, better equipment. More opportunities, y’know.”

-

Brian is pacing up and down the studio, listing off upcoming engagements to himself. John stands behind the easel and scratches in his signature in the bottom corner of the canvas he has been slaving over all week. It’s his golden piece. Two hands cupping liquid gold, the faint veins in the wrists glowing faintly in the same colour. He’s created a ripple effect within the treasure with the pale silhouette of two faces nose to nose with each other. 

“Are you listening to me, John?” Brian’s voice snaps him back into focus, “I can not have you unprepared. Francis Bacon has stirred up talk about religion once again and no doubt it will be brought up in this interview, you must be tactful about this. You do know what you will say, yes?”

“Christ,” John mutters, “A little on edge, eh?”

Brian blinks at him, “No, no. Just a tad, I am anxious for this year to be successful. To push you into the prestigious London art circles. We must-”

“Brian,” John bursts, “It’s alright. You need to settle. Have a drink or  _ something _ .” 

Brian shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, “You have to be prepared, I-”

The artist grunts, running his paint-caked hands over the old shirt he’s wearing as he walks to the sink, “How much did you take?”

“That’s of no concern to you,” Brian dismisses. And if this was last year, before Paul, he would have just gotten on his knees and sorted him out that way. These days though, he finds it difficult to be allured by anyone else. He wonders if Brian even cares about that. If he misses their intimacy at all. He scrubs off the flakes of dried paint from his palms and tries to remember the last time he saw Michael loitering around Brian’s apartment.

“Oh, before I forget, please-”

“Brian!” John exclaims, “Would ye jus’ calm down? The vein on yer head’ll pop off the way you’re going!”

The older man goes quiet, blush visible on the high spots of his cheeks. He smooths out his jacket, busying himself with the clasp of his watch with downcast eyes. Minutes of silence go by and then Brian is leaving without a word. John can’t bring himself to chase after him now, knowing better than to prod a bull with a temper.

He dries off his hands and starts to flip through his mail. Queen Magazine proves to be a decent enough read most of the time, so he sits himself on the old couch and fumbles behind the cushions for his glasses.

It’s peaceful, the rustling of leaves in the trees around his property and the distant chirping of birds that hop over thin branches that extend into the view from his windows. He pinches the corner of the page and turns it over.

And there it is. In black and white and grey. A photograph of Paul and Jane emerging from the entrance of the Cambridge Theatre. It is dated at the bottom corner as April 4th. It’s a recent photograph, he scans over their faces and searches for signs of deep affection. They both seem happy, smiling bright like the stars they are. It rattles him. Paul has his hand over Jane’s elbow, as if he’s guiding her. A cold feeling comes over him as he discards the magazine, suddenly too exhausted to work.

-

When Brian dips into one of his melancholy states John tends to flicker between being an absolute coward and a decent, determined friend. He will write him letters of encouragement and wedge them into the pockets of his jacket and through the gap of his door when he’s told by Brian’s housekeeper that he doesn’t want to see anyone today. He calls his home and laments about how locking himself away won’t do him any good. Otherwise, he retreats grumpily into his own work and waits out the storm, possibly dragging it out in the process. The pendulum swings infrequently these days, but it seems as though the older man is treading water once again. 

“You’ve been quiet,” he tells him, strolling along through the empty space of a room yet to be filled with art. Robert Fraser’s gallery is occupied with a handful of people tonight, mostly entertainers and socialites. 

“So have you,” Brian replies, sipping at his drink, tired eyes scanning the blank walls, “We might have walked too far, shall we head back? Oh, didn’t you say Paul was coming?”

John tongues at his teeth and doesn’t bother to mask the sour that colours his words, “Yeah. Should be.”

“Do I dare ask?” Brian arches a brow.

“No, you daren’t,” his jaw clenches. Ruminating over the nature of the relationship between Paul and the actress for hours has gotten him nowhere. To confront him with bitterness? Or flee from the ugly truth? He is no closer to the answer when he spots Paul from across the room, wearing a fitted pearl dinner jacket with a charcoal button up shirt underneath. He glides towards a group of people with that distinct charm radiating from him and John feels that familiar golden burst of fondness. He douses it in a hit of whiskey and curls back around on his heels to stop Brian in his path.

“How important is Groovy Bob?” he asks with a hint of anxiety, “Better happenings just about anywhere else, we could go.”

The older man gives him a baffled look, “I would say  _ very  _ important. You said it yourself just the other week, he’s a good connection to have. He’s displaying your work, please have  _ some  _ respect.”

“How good of a connection?” he presses further.

Brian tips back his drink, “Good enough, with his reputation. It is a tremendous opportunity, you shouldn’t be-”

“Hello gentlemen,” Paul greets them and John’s muscles go rigid and tight. He spins around, eyes skirting around Paul and straight to Fraser. A thin man with thick framed glasses and immaculate clothes, a navy silk scarf knotted loosely around his neck. He seems amused by the awkwardness of his movements, outstretching a hand and greeting him politely with a smile.

“Pleasure to see you again, Robert,” Brian shakes his hand, “You must be thrilled by this marvellous success of yours.”

“Yes,” Robert smiles lopsided and bright, “The four of us have much to celebrate.”

A dead weight in the pit of his stomach proving impossible to speak through silences him for a stretched moment. All he can focus on in the seconds that pass is the closeness of Paul’s shoulder to Robert’s, the unforeseen familiarity they share. Another wave of jealousy twists his stomach.

“...Oh, yes,” Brian casts him a concerned glance and quickly turns his attention back to the other pair, “Very proud of our Paul. Say, John mentioned you have captured the attention of Mister Oldham.”

“Mister?” John scoffs, thumb rubbing over the stickiness of the glass where his lips had been clamped over the rim. He looks down at his feet and notes that the toes of his shoes are pointed to Paul’s. And worse, Paul’s are pointed back to him. 

“Andrew?” Robert expels an amused breath and turns to regard Paul, “Is that so?”

John picks up on the slight stammer in his voice, the limpness of his wrist and the glint in his eyes behind those damn glasses. He feels warmer all of a sudden, a rose blush clings to his cheeks in humiliation. Of all the words and imagery sprouting from the sweltering depths of his insecurity, the one notion rises above all: Betrayal. It seems like such a dramatic word but the emotion simmering behind his eyes can’t be labelled anything softer. He looks to Paul with a tightly set jaw and dead eyes. Paul’s eyes communicate confusion in the split second it takes for him to turn back to face Robert.

“It seems that way,” Paul shrugs a shoulder, laughing quietly as he lifts up his glass to his mouth, “What do you think?”

The question leaves a bruise on his ego. That had been what he asked him over the breakfast table that morning. 

“Doesn’t seem like your style,” Robert crosses his arms over his chest, leaning his weight on one side like he’s posing, “You’re more careful than that.”

“Careful?” Paul smiles, bemused. John seethes silently.

“Andrew’s approach to most everything seems to differ from yours,” he says it so matter-of-factly that John is stunned, “And who knows, that might be a good thing. And all that isn’t to say you are dull, far from it in fact.”

“I’ll say,” John speaks gruffly, turning his attention to a man who casually pushes past him and hands Robert a small envelope which he promptly slips into his jacket pocket. Small talk continues, Paul fidgeting incessantly and rocking on his heels.

“Have you ever gotten high in an art gallery before?” Robert eventually asks Paul. The musician seems caught off-guard and so John interjects.

“High on what?” he challenges, though he hardly has much experience to stand on. A shy puff of an awful-smelling blunt at a party once and pills he’s swallowed at parties is all he has in his arsenal. 

“What exactly are we talking about?” Paul queries at the same time. He looks half amused but still slightly worried when he glances back between John and Robert. 

“Nothing life-changing,” the art dealer cocks his head a little, “But it should liven things.” 

He pats at the breast of his jacket and John’s eyes narrow. Paul laughs, nerves making the sound shiver. His fingers twitch around his glass.

“I’m riled up enough as it is,” John dismisses his offer with an unimpressed look.

“I’ll say,” Robert echoes his earlier words, and before John can react he continues, “Would you prefer to be mellowed?”

“That’s how most people prefer me,” John jokes, unsmiling. The other two men chuckle.

“Would you three care to join me, then?” he gives Paul a look that John can’t read, “See what it’s all about?”

“Nothing heavy,” Paul says it like an instruction and a question. 

“It’s only pot,” Robert assures him, “No danger, but no harm if you don’t-”

Paul shakes his head, “No, I’m up for it.”

John looks him up and down, “Right then, Bob, lead us to temptation.”

The office is relatively cut off from the rest of the small crowd socialising, a friend of Robert’s closing the door and producing a small plastic bag from behind an abstract sculpture by the bookcase. The incense burning on the desk makes John’s lungs stir. 

They sit themselves on the carpet, Robert producing a lighter and holding it up as his friend produces a fat joint to be held to the single waving flame. Paul’s knee knocks into Robert’s as he sits down and he apologises with a chuckle. John props himself up against the wall and observes the interaction. 

Robert takes a slow drag, cheeks hollowing before the smoke curls out from parted lips. 

“I only supply the best,” Robert claims, eyes shining as he tilts his head back to watch the smoke dissipate.

There’s a pause amongst the rest of the group, only interrupted when the stranger takes several slow puffs for himself and exits the room murmuring to himself. John is no stranger to intoxication, but this feels different. Conscious of not appearing reluctant or square, he leans forward. He feels Paul’s eyes bore into him and Brian’s muscles tensing at his side as he pulls the joint from Robert’s fingers and holds it to his mouth. He inhales, the stickiness of the pungent smoke coating his throat in an unpleasant taste that has his nose screw up a little. He makes a point of directing his eyes to Paul as he takes another drag with wet lips. It must not faze him, because he holds the stare. His eyes are curious, searching for something in John’s. The artist leans back against the wall and passes the joint to Brian and closes his eyes, waiting for something to happen. 

“I must say, this is far more potent than anything I’ve encountered before,” Brian comments, “I never felt much effect with past experiences.”

“I’m glad I could provide potency,” Robert takes the joint back from Brian’s hand and takes another drag for himself, “I am a hustler with standards.”

John doesn’t miss the look Robert gives him, like he’s amused and waiting for him to respond. He doesn’t, just allowing his muscles to grow heavy and mind to slip into a fuzzier state. Something to coax him out of feverish jealousy. Robert doesn’t pass the joint to Paul, like he’s waiting for the musician to ask for himself. The urge to ask him about Jane, about Robert, starts to fade with each look he catches Paul giving him. The musician’s long fingers take the smoke carefully, slowly. Robert reignites the end for him, and with a cartoonish look of caution Paul holds the joint to his lips. Heat stirs at the sight of those lips forming a neat little o, smoke escaping in curling ribbons when he exhales. The smell of it hangs low in the air around them, making his lids droop over. The casual ease of each puff draws him further into Paul’s realm. He takes the joint from him and plunges it between his lips and sucks deeply with his stare fixed on Paul’s mouth. The other man falters, breath hitching audibly. Robert and Brian are chatting languidly and giggling. 

John smirks. Paul laughs. John does too.

“John… John!” Brian’s fingers tug at his sleeve, “Do you feel it? I’m so high, I’m rising.” 

John splutters a laugh, “In the ranks?”

“No, no,” he dismisses him with a scoff, “I’ll be on the ceiling… Looking at you all.”

Paul’s hand presses over his knee, “John, I’m high too.”

He squints at him with mild surprise, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paul breaks into a fit of giggles and soon they are all giggling like school kids. The atmosphere curls around them like fading smoke. Paul’s lips look red in this low light, they look plush and worth sinking into. Again, heat flares up his veins. He shifts in his spot on the floor and lays his back flat on the carpet to look up at the ceiling. 

“This is great, Bob, it really is,” Paul speaks, voice rolling over the tracks mapped out in John’s brain. He tries to forget the imprint of Paul’s hand on his knee still burning. 

He’s not sure how long he has gone without speaking for when Paul crawls over to him. His eyes look more hazel tonight, olive hues gleaming under a veil of dark lashes. John feels stuck, like his muscles are honey and he has to rise up with snail-pace. He wants to kiss Paul again, it feels like too long since the last time. Whenever that was. Paul pulls back, fingers raking over John’s sleeve.

“Where did you buy this, hm?” he asks, and John can’t even tell if the interest is false or not. Still, he blinks down at the jacket, recognises it as the black velvet find he encountered at a boutique he had stumbled into after an aimless wander in the city. Underneath he wears the black and white striped shirt that Paul had once pulled over himself after getting an unfortunate splash of blue paint over the one he had been wearing. It occurs to him as Paul’s hand brushes over his thigh that his white pants might not serve him well tonight. Not with Paul looking like this. Like he’s ready to crawl into another room with him and make love.  _ Make love,  _ the phrase is drawn out long and wide over his consciousness. He startles at the sudden absence of contact when Paul drifts away and back to Robert.

“D’ ye like it?” John asks with a burst of volume, Paul blinks slowly at him as he sheds the jacket from his shoulders, “Have it.”

Paul laughs, a joyful sound that rings in his ears, “No, no. I don’t want yer jacket. Don’t, you’ll get cold. You’ll freeze over.”

“Like a lake,” John pulls it back over his shoulders, leaning forward to chase after those alluring eyes. The earth spins slowly around the deep black of his pupils. 

“The Serpentine is lovely this time of year,” Paul cracks up. 

John leans even closer, “You think my serpent is lovely?” 

Paul nudges him with his elbow, leaning into his space and giggling as he speaks, “The  _ cheek  _ of you, really.”

“Paul,” John almost sighs, being drawn back to reality when Robert’s figure slides into view. He is unmoving, simply observing them with merriment and maybe something else. They both split apart, like peeling a sticker from a wall and leaving patches of themselves with each other. 

Eventually they find their feet and step out into the gallery again. John keeps his shoulder pressed to Paul’s as they navigate the rooms and take in the artworks. And nothing changes visually, but the warm and sated feeling drives him to a kind of peace. The world is tilted on its axis, the meaning of each artwork bent in a slightly different direction. Paul feels in and out of reach. He wants to ask, all those questions to pour from his mouth. He wants to ask so much about and of Paul. In love and in fear. 

Someone suggests they should all take the evening somewhere else. John doesn’t remember agreeing but they are filed out and quickly filed into a nearby club with deep blue lights and music that throbs in his pulse points. Rock and roll, filthy guitar and crashing drums. Mick Jagger meanders past, slender arms hung over the shoulders of two ladies at each side. He greets Paul like he’s an old friend, eyes glittering.

He drinks whatever people hand to him, leaning up against the wall as time slithers like a snake winding across the floor. Paul socialises, flitting from group to group. John’s eyes can’t settle on one spot for too long before he’s off again. 

Misery sets long after the weed has worn off. All he has now is the alcoholic tinge of life passing him by with questions unasked and unanswered. He stalks to the bathroom, squeezing past a couple getting off over the sinks. The white tiles burn into his eyes, the dull bronze frame around the mirror sinks into the image of himself. He barely cares what he looks like anymore. He’s being stupid, he tells himself over and over. Hours go by. Mechanical conversations. A girl in a miniskirt tells him that Keith Moon is here.

“Who’s that?”

“He’s just joined The Who,” she tells him, “You  _ must  _ know them.”

He doesn’t, and that seems to be a deal-breaker because the young woman drifts away.

He can’t take it. He decides to leave, eyes catching on Brian’s figure leaning over the bar with his tie askew and hair slightly ruffled. 

“I’m going home, I’m knackered,” he calls out. When Brian looks up at him, eyes dark and expression grim, John falters.

“Come on, we’ll go together,” he adds, tugging Brian’s arm and pulling him away from a bartender with a sly-fox grin and a folded wad of cash in his fist.

“I lost a bet to him,” Brian explains, words slurring, “I promised I wouldn’t do that again.”

“Let’s head home, alright?” John guides him carefully to the doorway. Paul cuts through a small herd of people to interrupt their journey.

“Everything alright?” he asks, a worried glance between them. 

“Going home,” John explains, “Time for bed.”

“Oh,” Paul visibly deflates, thoughts clearly ticking behind disappointed eyes, “Should I- You’re going too?”

“Yeah, I’m bein’ sensible,” John runs his fingers through his fringe, “Had too much.”

“That’s alright,” Paul nods, hands slipping into his pockets, “Might head over to this restaurant Robert was talking about.”

A flare up of possessiveness from the pit of his throat and through a monotone voice escapes him, “Who’s your date this time? Jane or Robert?”

Paul frowns, “What?”

“Plain Jane or Hustler Bob?” John says it louder, voice smokey through a dry throat, “Quite a mixed platter. Must have a real appetite.” 

Paul glares at him, looking the most fierce he has ever seen him. Brian stirs at the tonal shift, urging John quietly to carry on and call them a car. 

“John, don’t-” he begins, a quiet and firm order. John ignores him. 

“Not fair,” is all Paul says, but there is definite anger simmering. John wants to rip it out of him. He wants to test and tease and mock and spite. The alcohol is coursing through him red hot and inflaming his insecurity. 

“That all ye got?” John barks a cruel laugh and pushes forward, “That all ye got t’ say t’ me?”

“Look after him, Brian,” Paul glares icily, “Before he hurts himself.”

“Fuck off,” John mutters and drives on past him with Brian in tow. The effort to call a car takes its toll of the pair, drowsy and barely lucid when the vehicle pulls up at the building. Anger dissolves like a tab on his tongue into bitter regret. They make their way into his apartment just as the sun has begun to burst through the grey horizon. 

“I think… I ought to,” Brian flops onto the couch with a sigh and a hand over his forehead, “I ought to get away from myself… from all those empty conversations… But wherever I go, I’ll be lonely. And that’s just it, isn’t it? The bitter black heart of it.”

John sits on the edge of the couch, chest feeling hollow and heart bleating worried beats as he watches his friend’s eyes water, “Fuck, Brian… You just need to...”

“You don’t have the answers, John,” Brian croaks, eyes falling shut, “No one does.”

It stings like needlepoints digging into his vulnerabilities, “What about Mike?” 

“Michael is in America,” he rubs over his eyes, “I should have gone with him… I should have thrown it to the wind and followed him. He’s the only one that ever truly…”

John’s throat tightens, “Why didn’t ye? Why didn’t you go with him?”

Brian’s expression remains unchanged, “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Fuck off, stop it,” John rises to his feet and stalks towards the curtains to yank them closed, “Brian, yer killing me.”

He grits his teeth and returns back to the couch, sitting by Brian’s feet and resting a comforting hand on his knee, “If you keep this up, if something happened to-”

“Don’t,” Brian speaks softly, “I won’t let you down, ever.”

“You are, though,” John snaps, sadness welling up and spilling over into a frenzied spiel of unfiltered words, “I’m scared. I need you. I need to rely on you. You’re the only person that’ll let me do that. You should be happy, I want you t’ be happy. I hate those fucking pills on your table, I hate those fags you hang around that give you the pills and use you. I hate-”

John blinks against the mist gathering in his eyes, the tension in his chest holding his lungs tight and painfully.

“You’ve never told me that.”

“Do I have to? After all this fucking time, you thought I liked that side of you? The miserable thing you are when you’re drugged up like a tranquilized bear?” 

“You never told me,” Brian repeats, the crease between his brow deepening.

“Thought we knew each other better than that,” the words tumble out heavy and sad.

“Do you regret it?” Brian breaks the silence, “Coming to London with me?”

“Fuck, no. No point in regret.”

Behind his eyes Paul’s soft features emerge from a tangle of imagery. Pale hands over piano keys. Melodic voice humming. Nights in London spent in galleries and theatres and restaurants and studios and beds. It floods in, the punctures of remorse in his heart. Suddenly the weight of every neuroticism they share presses down on the two of them. 

“John… are you-” Brian sits up quickly, a heavy arm draping over his shoulders to pull him back into reality, “Shit, I never meant to- Oh dear. Please...”

He sniffs, exhaling a choked sound before he corrects his posture and wipes at the dampness out from his eyes, “I’m not. I’m fine.”

“What happened with Paul?” Brian questions quietly, “Why did you speak to him like that?”

“I don’t know,” John says, unsure if it’s a lie or not. He doesn’t want to think about it any longer. He wants to sleep. And furthermore, he wants to dream awake as long as he can. 

“Apologise,” Brian urges him, “You mustn’t be afraid, John. Really.”

“He’ll leave. Like everyone does,” John mutters, standing up again and wobbling on his feet, “One minute they’re havin’ breakfast wit’ ye, the next they’re fuckin’ who knows who an’ I’m left ‘ere. What a  _ fucking idiot _ I am.” 

The blurry walk to Brian’s bedroom ends at the edge of the bed, bleary eyes catching sight of that damn matador above the bedhead.

“I make you miserable. You should see it by now.”

-

Waking up with a blanket tucked over his shoulders and breakfast on a platter on the bedside table shouldn’t make him feel so bitter. The apartment is empty, void of Brian’s frantic pacing and a shrill telephone ring bursting every so often. Just John, in the rumpled clothes from last night, standing over the record player with a strong desire to listen to Paul’s record. The first one, he decides, and flips through each mumsy opera and sugar-sweet show tune until he finds that familiar face with the dancing flowers around the border. He smokes by the window, tapping ash out onto the street below as the first song plays.  _ Tomorrow I’ll miss you…  _

“Fuck,” he grinds his teeth and watches the clouds roll by. If he could paint like Magritte, he would paint himself at the window looking out to some absurd kind of scene. He can’t think any further than that. Another hit of nicotine. Nothing. He wonders if Paul went to the studio late today. Wonders how vividly Paul remembers him practically spitting in jealous rage.  _ You scared him right off _ .

He can’t be the effortless and charming ponce that Robert is, nor the gorgeous starlet like Jane. All he can offer Paul is... His mind could collapse under the weight of the silence that follows. So is that it? He just has to give him up? He can’t sever ties without carving out a part of himself, the part that he can actually stand. The part he can occasionally be proud of. The artist. The bright quick-witted sharpness you find in a genius. That’s how Paul makes him feel. 

Smoke sitting over his tongue and resting in his lungs. More silence. It’s the simple drag of a day that reminds him sorely of those first few nights without Stuart. Unsure, lost, aimless. But there’s something more. Something pooling into his awareness that makes him feel less than whole. Like the gold has slipped through his fingers and into the void.

When the telephone rings he assumes it’s Brian and there is a shock of sudden clarity when he picks up the phone and hears his own voice come out in a coarse croak.

“Hm, not very encouraging,” a chuckle, “How about dinner with me at the Turkish place around eight?” 

He squints at the frame on the wall holding the first article written about John’s work sitting at eye level, “Come again?”

“Oh… I apologise, is this not Brian Epstein?” Robert asks. That same curl of amusement in his tone. 

“No, it’s his mother,” John returns in his brogue.

“I see,” he replies cheerfully, “In that case, I would appreciate you telling him I called.”

“You have no one better to wine and dine on a Sunday night?” John leans his hip against the table surface, “Here I was thinking you were a social butterfly.”

“Surely I am something more regal than a flimsy butterfly,” Robert hums.

“Right then, an elegant bird?” John tests. 

Robert laughs, unaffected, “Is that such a bad thing? Those eagles in Africa could tear a man to pieces.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, considering the vultures on the London scene” he twists the cord over his fingers, “Hope they aren’t your crowd, Bob. Wouldn’t want you mixing with that ugliness.”

“Depends on your meaning,” he responds, “I must say, you have quite an interesting crowd surrounding you.”

“You think so?” 

“Definitely, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What do you find so  _ interesting  _ about Brian, then?” he asks.  _ About Paul? _

“Many things. What about yourself, John?” his stammer seems to trip him up halfway through his question, though it doesn’t lessen the strike of embarrassment in John’s gut. He shifts on his feet, a self conscious bow of his head as he directs his eyes to the floor.

“Many a thing,” he clicks his tongue, “I’ll give him your message when he’s back. G’night.”

“Oh, John? While I have you, Paul mentioned you are good friends with Stuart Sutcliffe-”

His heart creaks under the weight of that Paul’s name, “And?”

“That’s very impressive, he has made quite a name for himself. If he ever returns to the UK you will give him my details, won’t you?” 

John suppresses his scorn, “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

“Thank you. I might call again later, see if I can catch Brian then.”

John hums in a weak attempt to mask the jealousy unfurling. He clamps the telephone back down, heart stuttering when he realises that Paul’s record had been playing the whole time. He frets over what Robert would have made of that. 

-

He has to go back to his flat eventually, Brian has locked up his liquor and the appliances in the kitchen are beyond his comprehension, he’s better suited to the ancient set up he has in his own place. The night is cool and breezy and his mind can’t reel any further from that bright spark of inspiration that he had taken for granted. Had he called Mimi this week? Had he called Stuart? Had he berated himself for being a jealous git in the last ten minutes? 

“Hello John! Lovely evening for a walk,” his middle-aged neighbour calls out as he steps out of his car. 

“Thought you had fucked off for good this time,” John replies, leaning over the mailbox, a dented thing that seems stuffed to the brim with envelopes. Frank laughs, tipping his hat as he rounds the vehicle and tugs out the handful of mail from the box. 

“No, just a little time away. Finished the manuscript I had been worried about,” Frank replies cheerfully, shuffling through the envelopes, “How have you been, Johnny?”

John winces a little at the nickname, the sound of it scraping against a raw nerve and making him stumble over his words, “Alright.”

“That’s the way,” Frank looks up to him and smiles with pointed canines and brown eyes sparkling. Dark hair curls just over the tips of his ears where it had grown over neglect just months ago. He’s also now more tan in that way he has seen other Greek migrants sport, smooth olive that makes the light in his eyes more pronounced.

Frank is a writer, most of John’s neighbours happen to be creative types with moderate success. He can barely remember what Frank writes - Novels? Screenplays? - his interactions with the older man are limited to occasional chats over the fence. He usually disappears once or twice a year for a little while, has a cottage somewhere out of sight and usually comes back with something written and bound neatly to send off to his publisher. There’s a pattern John can always make out: Frank will go unseen and unheard for a month or two, weeds overtaking his garden and car unmoved from the driveway, and then one day he will be gone. And it makes John wonder why he doesn’t just stay in that cottage if London keeps bringing him down into a recluse. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about seeing an illuminated window - someone being  _ there  _ but also not. He has a theory that Frank has a lover wherever that mysterious cottage is. Well, maybe not so much a theory as a hope. Despite everything, he’s a hopeless romantic, if he were to be cliche. 

“There was a man at your front door when I arrived this afternoon,” Frank says, “He seemed worried. I was worried.” 

John blinks, “Worried?”

“Oh, I’m a product of the war, always assuming the worst,” Frank chuckles as he squints down at a particular envelope with interest, “I told him I would tell you, but he said not to worry about it. I always laugh when I hear that. ‘Do not worry’. They don’t know who they are speaking to, eh!” 

John forces a half smile, running his fingers through his hair, “Didn’t happen to be a fella with dark hair? Real lean looking?” 

“Ah, yes,” Frank nods, clicking his fingers and pointing at John’s chest, “He had the same hair as that McCartney, the singer. You’ve heard of him? Just like that.”

John purses his lips and nods slowly, “I’ll drop him a line.”

“Johnny,” Frank pats his arm, “You look tired. Mr Epstein is working you too hard.”

“Nah, he’s alright,” John smiles a little at that and looks to his flat, “I better be off. Make sure you pay those bills. Don’t want you taken away now that you’ve come back.”

Frank laughs and claps him over the arm again, “Ah, they can take me! They are all crooks! My family in Australia say it is much better there. Have you been to Australia?”

John shakes his head, “Too far to walk.”

“Ah, it is lovely there. My brother and his family own a little cafe, like the Americans have… Like a diner. They send me letters. They want me to join them but I have a good job here. I have a good neighbour, too.”

“I’m mediocre,” John retorts, “Take care, Frank.”

“You too, Johnny.”

There’s something about that single strip of light in the window in Frank’s flat that causes him immense unease. He picks up the phone and dials Paul’s number before the loneliness creeps any colder. 

-

“Hello?” 

“It’s John, you won’t hang up on me, will ye? I went through all the trouble using water glasses as specs to look up your number.”

Paul laughs softly, “What prescription is tha’?”

“Merlot 1959.”

“Bold and fruity?” Paul quips, and damn, John grins. 

“That’s why I called,” John leans against the wall, “Don’t really know what to tell ye.”

“You embarrassed-” Paul starts but the rest of the reply doesn’t come. John bites down on his lip.

“I know it wasn’t fair on you. We never talked about… About that,” John tugs on his shirt, “I was just drunk and I’m a fucking mean drunk. And- I saw that picture of you and Jane from the other night and went a little barmy.”

“I thought you would understand,” Paul says, “Or maybe I just didn’t want to mix you up with all that. It’s  _ good  _ to be seen with women, John. Better than none at all. I’m already hanging around- Well, nevermind that. But Jane… she’s wonderful, y’know? Really clever girl and I like talking to her. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Do you fuck other people?” John asks with eyes clenched shut, “You ought to tell me.”

“I do?,” Paul pauses, “Alright. I do.”

“Huh.”

When I’m on tour and there are birds around, ye know how it is. I’m a lad, aren’t I?”

“We both are,” John clips back, settling back down with a long breath, “Guess there’s no secrets now.”

“Aren’t there?”

“What d’ye mean by that?”

“Nothing,” Paul says a little coldly and then speaks softer, “I don’t know what we want from each other. How should I know?”

“Let me come over an’ spend the night. Please. We can work it out together,” John’s voice is a little over a hushed murmur.

A pause. 

“I’ll come over tomorrow, how about that? Seven o’clock and I’ll be on your doorstep.”

_ Not soon enough. _

“Alright,” John’s gut twists, “I’ll see you then.”

“Good night, John,” Paul says.  _ Click _ .

-

He’s on his knees when the door snaps shut behind Paul’s back, and the musician laughs and grabs him by the arms and pulls him up, “Aye. Not even a hello?”

“I can communicate that other ways,” John relaxes in Paul’s grip. They are both grinning, like the joy they are feeling may not be rational but it doesn’t matter.

“Why didn’t you answer the door yesterday?” Paul asks, “I felt like an idiot, standing out there and yelling for you. Your neighbour looked like he would’ve called the police if I hadn’t gotten out of there.”

John suppresses a soft laugh, “I wasn’t home.”

Paul’s eyes drop to the space between their bodies, “You weren’t?”

“Stayed at Brian’s apartment,” John explains quietly, eyes drinking in the gorgeous shapes in Paul’s face. The soft lines by his eyes, the faded blotches of colour over his cheeks, the slip of shadow underneath his pout. That same spike of adrenaline hits him, just as it had when he heard the soft steps over the incline of the path leading to his door. The firm knock on the door and the repressed emotion hiding behind the curtains of his eyes. It feels like there is a fire-pit between their chests, flames whipping back and forth between them as they stare into each other’s eyes. 

“You weren’t going to leave, were you?” John asks softly.

“Where would I go?” Paul’s fingertips massage gently into the muscle of John’s arms.

“That’s not the answer,” John swallows, “Doesn’t make me feel-”

“What do you want, then?” Paul tilts his head.

“I don’t know,” John says it like any other lie he’s told. With absolute conviction. 

“So we can be happy with this?” Paul runs his hands up over his shoulders and cups his jaw. They kiss, slow and sweet.

“This is it for me,” John tells him, mouth pressed to his jaw, “You know that.”

Paul doesn’t answer, hands running down over his arms again and squeezing his hips and pulling him closer.  _ Tell me what you’re thinking. I need to know. _

The silk of Paul’s skin warms under his touch. They both pant and moan and grapple like they are starving for it. For the sentiments communicated in every grope and caress. He’s close to tears when he comes, muscles lax when he pulls himself over Paul’s body and rests his head over his chest. Paul’s fingers work over the top of his spine in a melody that he doesn’t recognise. He tries to match it up with the love songs that flit in and out of his fuzzy mind. Blue Moon? No, that’s not it. Love Me Tender? Ma Belle? Paul must feel it when he smiles. The beats match up. 

Paul giggles and John murmurs softly to his heart, “These are words that go together well, oh ma belle.”

“On the right path,” he laughs, “La Vie en rose.”

“What does it mean, Monsieur?” John nips at him gently. 

“It means ‘life in rosey hues’, or summat,” Paul tugs gently at a lock of his hair, “Was thinking of the Louis Armstrong version.”

“I think I’ve got the Edith Piaf record. Stu must have sent it, no way I’d pick up that miserable shit.”

“You told me you liked her,” Paul tugs again.

“Did I?” John relaxes further, sighing, “Christ, don’t mind me, then. Clearly I change with the weather.”

“Hm,” Paul smooths over John’s hair gently, “I do mind you.”

“Often?” 

“Oh, yes. Very often.”

“That’s alright, then. I mind you, too,” John runs his thumb over the dip of Paul’s waist, “Let’s mind ourselves.”

Paul’s smile is audible, “Never you mind.”

“Mind over matter,” John responds sleepily.

“Mind your step,” Paul’s hand relaxes over the back of his head.

“Step inside love,” John answers, and they both smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Interview with London based artist, John Lennon. August, 1965

 **I: As your popularity grows, do you feel more or less freedom to create what you want, including riskier projects?**   
**J** : _Neither, really. I’ve always done what I wanted. Having more eyes on my work d_ _oesn’t change if and how I’ll do the next one.  
_

 ******I: Speaking of which, you are known to occasionally push the boundaries, in particular with a recent piece displayed in Robert Fraser’s Gallery. It depicts an erotically charged celebration with deformed policemen embracing each other, and has been described by critics as offensive slander on Britain’s brave officers. How do you respond to those comments?  
** **J:** _That’s their own view of it, why should I respond? I’ve done my bit by creating the art. They are offended by ideas they came up with themselves._

 ******I** : **What was your original inspiration behind the piece?  
** **J:** _Well, it’s funny to me, you know - police officers waiting out in public restrooms trying to catch queers who are cruising around those seedy areas. They have to play along for however long it takes to get the dirt on the guy, and it’s a sort of ironic thing. It’s just a bit of sick humour._

 **I: Does the London scene influence your work?  
** **J:** _To a point, I suppose it does, like anything else. I’m more turned on by people, though._

 **I: What do you hope to achieve in the near future, personally and professionally?  
** **J** : _I take it as it comes, you know. I want to continue what I’m doing and push a little further into the unknown. I want to do something completely original, though I’m told there is no such thing. Personally, I don’t know. There are the material things I’d like, more room to fill with stuff and all that jazz. As for everything else… I hear you’re only really at peace at thirty or forty, which is a drag._

 **I: How about marriage and children? Or do you find yourself too engaged with your art to live the traditional life of a family man?  
** **J** : _If I met the right woman for me, you know, I’d go through with it. I don’t want to get obsessed with it, because it’ll scare off the natural order of things. Like if you give it a name, it disappears. I don’t want that, so I’ll wait for it to happen._

 **I: You have collaborated with popular musician Paul McCartney, designing his album covers. How did that partnership come about?  
** **J:** _I met him at a showing, back in ‘63, I think. He dug what I was doing and bought something of mine and later on he asked me if I would do the cover for his first record, and I said yes. It’s just easy to work with him and we have great laughs._

 **I: Is he the most famous friend you have in your phone book?  
** **J** : _Maybe, I haven’t checked. ‘Famous’ doesn’t really mean anything. I think he’s the most talented person in my phone book… Besides my own name inside the cover. (Lennon grins)_

 **I: Finally, John, we ask every artist that we interview the three most interesting things they own. What are yours?  
** **J:** _That’s relative. Most interesting to me? Or to your readers?_

 **I: To you.  
** **J:** _Oh, in that case… My book collection, if that counts as one thing. I’m proud of it, anyway. I have bits and pieces of art but still have them all wrapped up until I get a bigger house to display them in. And then there’s this daft old pocket watch I have, it carries a bit of sentimental value, you see._

-

**September, 1965.**

Interview with popular musician Paul McCartney!

 **I: Who are your most important musical influences?  
** **P:** _Oh, all the greats, you know. Little Richard, Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly, Ray Charles… I could go on forever, really. I do like Stockhauson and Arthur Alexander, some Samuel Barber here and there. I like all sorts of music but my main influences are the rock and rollers._

 **I: Is it true you are in a relationship with actress Jane Asher?  
** **P:** _Oh, that’s just a rumour. We’re just good friends.  
_

 **I: Are you single at the moment?  
** **P:** Yes, it appears I am.

 **I: What do you look for in a girl?  
** **P:** _The usual things, you know. Beautiful… a good sense of humour. Someone I could talk to for hours and not get bored with._

 **I: How do you write a song?  
** **P:** _There’s no real magic formula behind it, not one I’m conscious of anyway. I just sit down at the piano and sort of try little bits and pieces of melodies that I think up. I’m always thinking about music, is the thing. Sometimes I’ll have a lyric that I want to attach music to, so it works the other way around. It’s just like painting, one layer after another and it builds into something beautiful._

 **I: What do you enjoy most about your life as a successful musician?  
** **P** : _Well, I think I like the challenge in trying to reach success, success being a good collection of music under your name. I love music, so it’s really great being in the studio and working on a song and seeing it come together. I do like touring, seeing the audience and all that excitement, it’s fantastic._

 **I: Who is the most interesting celebrity you have met through your travels?  
** **P:** _I’ve met some really terrific people, I’m very lucky. But, having said that, I think John Lennon (London Artist) would have that title. He’s a good friend of mine, actually. He designs my record covers._

 **I: Do you have any hobbies besides music?  
** **P:** _I like going to galleries and looking around and sometimes even buying art. I don’t mind a bit of theatre here and there. Anything creative, you know. John has encouraged me to paint as well._

 **I: Where is your favourite place to travel?  
** **P:** _I’ve been to Paris and it was wonderful. I would love to go back one day._

 **I: It is the city of romance! Perhaps you might have a special someone with you next time?  
** **P:** _Perhaps I will, that would be lovely._

-

Their eyes are locked, stifling laughter as Paul keeps his head angled just so. John is painting his portrait, a spontaneous venture that has had the musician perched on a stool for about two hours now, craning his neck so that the cut of his jaw is more pronounced, and the dark curl of his lashes stands out bolder. John runs a horsehair brush slowly down along the sweep of Paul’s hair, dark locks falling longer now. John loves it, the softness of it as he runs his fingers through it when they are in bed together. Watching his pale digits thread through the dark. 

“I’ll be stiff in the morning if I keep this up,” Paul runs a hand over the tense muscle over his shoulder.

“No different from any other morning,” John retorts, dragging his thumb over the shadow underneath Paul’s jaw, “Anyroad, you owe me this much for not stripping off for this.”

“Got t’ keep the thrill alive, baby,” Paul titters, drumming his hands over his thighs as his eyes trail over the room, “Couldn’t even have my guitar here to give me something to do.”

An idea unfurls, tentative, like his subconscious is shy about it. He pauses, settling the brush down over the palette and running his hands over a damp washcloth. 

“Wait here, will you? I’ve got something to keep you occupied.”

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” Paul calls out, amused. 

John crosses over into the bedroom, nerves crawling about as he halts his movements to take in the moment, to give himself a chance to reconsider. It’s stupid, he tells himself, for this to feel momentous and important. But he opens up the doors, the top shelf occupied by a long box. A coffin, he had imagined when he first took it out to play after his mother passed. He brings down the entire thing, disturbed dust now floating through the still air. The banjo feels different to hold now, standing in the middle of his room, so far from Liverpool and so far from her. He’s almost afraid to strum, as if it could shatter in his hands. And yet, he knows that he can trust Paul to hold it, to play it better than he ever could. His thumb drags slowly across the strings, barely making any sound at all. Those familiar twangs ghost over his ears, the chords his mother taught him still a matter of muscle memory, too deeply ingrained into his mind. Those treasured afternoons sitting on her couch with this in his lap, fingertips bruising purple as the afternoon turned to evening and his mother would be sitting on the arm of the couch with her hands on her heart, grinning wide and proud. 

“John?” Paul’s voice is soft, a gentle interruption. John turns around, holding the banjo in his arms like he’s cradling a newborn. 

“It was me Mum’s…” he starts, but can’t seem to conjure anything else. In all these years, he doesn’t think there ever were any words for it, none that even came close. For the feeling of having his heart torn from the one tether he allowed himself. There’s a thick welling of emotion in his throat, his eyes blinking back tears that aren’t there. He thought he had cried them all out years ago. Paul crosses the floor and stands across from him, looking down at the instrument and then up to John. There’s a shakiness in the moments that follow, the slight tremble of his frame, the weight of everything sitting like lead in his arms, the way Paul’s eyes keep flickering from the banjo and back up to John’s eyes. 

“There’s never anything to say,” Paul rasps suddenly, “People just say they’re sorry. It’s almost funny how they just...fumble. Fumble for the right thing when there’s nothing right about any of it.”

A tight force curls around his throat, tension behind his eyes desperately fighting impending tears, “You know I wouldn’t have anyone else see me blubber like this.”

He sniffs, lip trembling, and Paul’s hand reaches out to touch him lightly on his arm, “Come ‘ead, alright? Sit down with me.”

They sit on the edge of the bed shoulder to shoulder, banjo lying across their laps. John exhales, stomach all knotted up tight as his chest shivers with the tension sitting there. 

“I thought maybe you could play it… I didn’t- I just…” John blinks out the blurriness of his vision, warm streaks of tears sliding over his face. Paul’s arm curls over his shoulder, palm flattened over his shoulder blade.

“It’s alright, yeah?” Paul soothes. The room is dark, the faded afternoon not affording them any light through the slit of the drawn curtains, and yet, everything is clear and vibrant. The glint of the strings, the creases in his shirt sleeves, Paul’s right hand reaching out and over to rest over his forearm.

“I’m a fuckin’ mess,” John forces an empty laugh, “Shouldn’t ‘ave gotten it out and-”

“Don’t,” Paul murmurs, “I- I know what it means to you.”

John’s eyes close slowly, breathing in the comfort, “What was yours like? Do you remember her?”

Paul takes in a breath, shifting his weight, “I remember… so much, honestly. Sometimes I’m thankful, and sometimes I wish… I don’t know what to do with them, the memories. They just stay there, don’t they?”

John tips his head to rest against Paul’s, the two of them just watching the air in front of them, “Mimi would throw out my drawings, but Mum would take them and keep them. On the fridge, on the walls… She’d just sit and watch me, doing funny little voices for the characters and I remember all of it.” 

The sharpness of the moment goes slack and soft, both of them seem to be propped up by each other. The weight of grief slips into the dark, a receding tide pulling back little by little.

“She used to knit,” Paul says, voice just a whisper, “She’d sit and watch us play and she’d knit scarves and hats.” 

Time melts, candle wax running down, the two of them lying on their backs and speaking in low voices that seem more like vibrations - like feelings transmitted through the air between them - than words. An understanding running deep, the memories being relayed with touches of sadness and smiles all the same. 

He startles awake sometime later, Paul is at his side, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. 

“You’re here?” he croaks, craning his neck to see Paul’s profile in the darkness.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” he responds. His voice is strong and sure, and still so melodic and sweet. The words soothe him, cushioning any sprouting insecurity. 

“How about up there with the pillows?” he suggests, and Paul smiles.

“Come on, then.”

John lifts himself up, making sure the banjo is put back carefully into the box. He leaves it on the floor with the lid open, a vague hope that he might play through those chords in the morning. 

For now, he slips under the sheets with Paul at his side, half dressed and already half asleep, lying on his side and waiting for John to pull his night shirt over his head and join him. 

Their eyes meet in the dark, but they don’t say anything. No twitch of a smile, no acknowledgement of their staring. They just watch each other, blending like paint on a palette, soft hues mixing into something nostalgic and comforting. Love, quiet and bold, shines between them. 

-

Paul takes his time getting dressed in the morning, eyes sharp and focused on his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His bags are packed and sitting by the front door, John is still curled in the tangle of the sheets with an alertness that only an impending separation can burden him with. Another short tour, a cavern in their timeline together where the darkness dips in. John wants to follow him, the request dangling out of his reach unspoken. He wants Paul to ask him.

The morning light is pale, spilling through the windows and coating everything in a kind of dull grey. John stays in bed as Paul drifts in and out of the room. The energy is soft despite the dread seeping cold as each minute drags on. When he can no longer ignore the urgency radiating from Paul’s increasingly anxious form, he gets out of bed and gathers his clothes. Paul had given him a house key a long time ago, but there’s something wrong and empty about being surrounded by Paul’s things and not the man himself. 

“Well,” John runs his fingers through his hair, “Off ye go then, entertaining the masses.”

Paul’s eyes are like two idle suns sitting behind grey clouds, dull and gleaming and hiding things John desperately wants to know, “Might have to get the stash out from the cigar box in my bedroom.”

John scoffs, “Paranoid.”

Paul shrugs, smiling faintly, “Consider it a gift.”

“I’ll consider it,” he swallows down the sour taste of growing nervousness, “I’ll scout around for your liquor, while I’m at it.”

They both stand across from each other, the walls of the hallway pressing them closer and closer, the truth is inescapable and it aches. John just wants to hear those words. Wants to be on that plane, wants it to be the two of them. London or Paris or anywhere, it wouldn’t matter. 

Paul is gnawing at his lip, eyes darting around like he’s checking things one last time. Like he’s waiting for something. Waiting, waiting, waiting. The silky mist of early morning air hangs just outside the windows, the blurriness of the moment never sharpening. 

John relents, because if he doesn’t he’ll burst, “I can’t wave ye off at the docks, love, yer gonna have t’ say something now.”

Paul blinks as if he’s startled and laughs all bashful and self-deprecating, “That’d be a sight, though. You waving a scarf in the air, promising you’ll be true.”

Paul steps up to him, tilting his head and looking up at him in that coy way that unravels John. 

He sighs, kissing him softly, “I’d have sent you off satisfied but I’m saving meself for marriage, ye see.”

“Pfft, you’re a filthy liar,” Paul chuckles, mouth pressing lightly over his cheek, “I couldn’t think of anything better, ye know.”

“Better than what?” John pulls back, just enough so their lips barely touch, eyes unfocused and only absorbing blurred impressions of his face.

“To live in sin with you,” Paul kisses him again, sugar sweet. John feels enclosed in angel wings, the feathery and radiant feeling of being loved by Paul in the morning. The colour of bed sheets and the teacups they use at breakfast, the colour of dusty sunlight over floorboards and John’s clothes crumpled somewhere on the floor. The colour of the sky behind them in those black and white photographs taken in Paris, eyes locked on each other. 

He spirals into it so easily, whirling like particles of charcoal dust in the air, John exhales a sigh. 

_I love you._

It might just be a clumsy tumble of words in his head, but it’s the truth. Clear cut and sharp and pure and it means everything to him. He recoils a little, a wobbly feeling in his gut as his breath hitches. The silence goes on and on, the pause gripping John’s heart. He hadn’t said it out loud but somehow he feels that Paul knows.

_And I love you._

Paul breathes a warm gust over his neck, pulling him closer, but John wants to see his eyes. They look at each other, breathless and gentle and bewildered and shy and bold all at once. Paul looks down to the floor, colour burning over his cheeks, lip bitten into. 

“You can read me like a book, can’t you?” John asks quietly, heart galloping. His fingers smooth over his shoulders, tucking under the fold of his collar. _Tell me to come with you. Tell me to come with you if we can’t say those words._

Paul’s lips part, words trapped or simply nonexistent, John can’t be sure. They are standing so close, breathing the same air and lingering on words they can’t say now, not when one of them is about to leave. The desperation bleeds out into every corner of his perception, aching for Paul to speak. Neither of them do. They stand and wait and they love so deeply it hurts. 

He feels choked up and cold, wilting against the doorframe as Paul steps out with his bags and his guitar case strapped over his back. If John had to paint this moment, he’d use white gold and pale blue, all washed over a grey slate. He’d paint a pale gold halo over Paul’s head, shadows under his eyes and mouth slightly down-turned. He’d paint him like a fuzzy memory, he’d paint him with layers applied with a palette knife scraping against more layers. He’d work in every angle and curve over and over again. He’d retell the same story using the same colours, the same words and imagery. The story of Paul having a chance to choose him wholeheartedly, standing in the gravel driveway like he’s about to turn back around. And John isn’t angry or even hurt, not really. Because he sees it, the anguish of the two of them separating. The tide recedes, Paul walks down the driveway, boots crunching the grit with each step. John watches, the strings of his heart wavering in a soft melody Paul must have written. 

He doesn’t end up painting that moment. He goes back to the unfinished portrait of Paul still perched on the easel. Autumn colours, hazel eyes and pearl skin. He adds touches of cloudy grey into the background, making Paul stand out bolder and more clear. He carves his signature in the corner, as if to remind himself that this is his Paul. The golden, glowing, unendingly beautiful and divine Paul. The fussy perfectionist, the unnervingly talented and ambitious, the stubborn and the unspeaking Paul. His love is laced through lyrics and melodies, not through defiant proclamations. John loves him deeply, and the truth of it presents itself in loneliness, in Paul’s light and everywhere in between.

-

Brian is clear eyed and bright, more so than he has been in a long time. He’s wearing vibrant colours, his hair a little longer so that the natural waves and curls can be admired. The furniture has been rearranged and replaced, Brian citing Michael’s influence as inspiration for the change. John doesn’t pry, but smiles knowingly and Brian mirrors it shyly. 

“He’ll be returning to London soon and I’m terribly eager to impress,” Brian explains, folding his arms over his chest and casting a critical eye over the lounge.

“That’s the way to a man’s heart, is it?” John chuckles, leaning against the back of the couch, “Furnishings?” 

“It’s in my nature,” Brian taps his chin, thoughtful, “Design, that is.”

“Yeah, well,” John fidgets with the hem of his shirt, “I’m glad t’ see you in better spirits.”

“You know what it was?” Brian half smiles, drifting down to the armchair, crossing one leg over the other, “I wrote to Michael, I was honest. The most honest I’ve ever been, in fact. And it was because of you.”

John’s brow arches, rounding the corner of the couch to sit down, “Me?”

“You and Paul,” Brian corrects himself, clasping his hands together over his knee, “Those days leading up to Paris, I could sense something there about to burst. And it was up to the two of you to sway towards the light, and you did - in your own clumsy way. Paul reaching out, and you allowing your defences to be broken through. I always wondered how you two could push on that way, despite how frightened you both were. I suppose I realised the answer when Michael went away and I was left here.”

John purses his lips, casting his eyes away, “That was a long time ago.”

“But all those Paris moments since then?” Brian snaps his attention back, “All the times you allowed yourself to be vulnerable, not running away or being cruel?”

John picks at the cuff of his sleeve, “I’ve done plenty of that. All of it. I don’t want to beg over and over.”

“He’s begging too,” Brian says, tone cryptic, “You must see it. Step outside of your own neuroticisms-”

“-and step inside love?” John laughs humorlessly, “Don’t bother. I know… I just think… Well, it’s nice to be wanted, innit? To be loved and to feel that without having to have any doubts.”

“You doubt it?” Brian questions, giving him an unbelieving look. 

“I… I don’t know. I think he does,” John clears his throat, “But maybe I’ve gotten carried away.”

Brian nods slowly, assessing the carpet underneath his loafers, “Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not dismissing your point of view. It might be true, for all I know, but you must see it.”

“It?”

“That the most important person in your life holds you in the same esteem,” Brian smiles softly, “That he’s waiting for the right moment, and you are convinced every moment is the right moment for _proof_. And that’s not what love is. Love saves us, John. The two of us were saved by it, weren’t we? And we have found another love now, better and more suited to us, we ought to follow them.”

John’s jaw clenches, “It’s not the same, Brian. An’ I don’t even know what you’re getting at with this spiel.”

Brian nods to himself, thumb running over his knuckles, “You have to be patient, and he has to be bold. It will cost him, you know that. He loves music, that’s who he is, you can’t ask him to sacrifice his dream for something you are unable to be candid about. But it will be alright in the end, because you complement each other in every way possible. The love you both share will prevail.”

John considers the words, considers that Brian’s confidence in them stems from a newly granted hit of optimism rather than truth. 

And yet, he ponders what Brian saw when he was at his lowest. If there is any difference there. And it dawns on him, the confidence Brian has held in the two of them since the start. Unshaken despite everything he has ever known about John. 

“John,” Brian bites back his lip, looking up at a painting John had done last year that sits above the television, “If I were to go to Spain with Michael…”

John’s stomach churns, a spark of shock flaring before he really takes in the moment, the tone, the worried eyes now scanning his. He relaxes a little, and all the love and trust he feels for Brian remains secure and stable, the gratitude and respect. 

Unselfish and honest, he nods, “I would be happy. I wouldn’t want any less for you.” 

Brian’s posture shifts, like the tension is slowly dissipating and his shoulders can rest easier, “You mean that, don’t you?”

“I was never the right matador for you,” John teases lightly, standing up, “Maybe once upon a time but… It’s different now, aye? We’ve found…”

Brian smiles, eyes glittering, “We have indeed.”

-

“So, _is he or isn’t he_?” 

“What are ye on about?” John tips back his drink, leaning against a pillar as men congregate to dance at the other end of the bar. The lights are dim and couples slip into the shadows together. Everything is coated in sweat and splashes of alcohol. He finds that touching other men, even in innocent flirtation, feels fuzzy and distant - like the graininess of pill dust gathered under his tongue. He has no intentions of finding anyone else to spend the night with, to ease the heartache. Mostly, he’s come here hoping for the kind of connections Paul makes so easily. Friendships grounded in art and music and whatever other building blocks his mind is made up from. Brian will be off to Spain in a few days, and he’s been dreadfully uninspired this week. And maybe he’s thinking about groupies huddled outside hotel buildings, but that’s something he refuses to acknowledge.

Raymond curls further into his personal space like a curious feline, pupils blown out, “The McCartney fella, your _good friend_. Is he?”

A bitterness writhes behind a stoic mask as John plants his empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter, “I’m no gossip.”

The gentleman gives a delighted hiss of laughter, “Oh, what a laugh _that_ is!” 

“Don’t like what you’re accusing me of,” John keeps a settled composure, glancing at his company up and down, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“You’re not spending much time here these days,” Raymond shrugs a bony shoulder and settles his glasses back from the top of his head to over his nose, deep blue lenses hiding a piercing stare, “And you both spend an awful lot of time together.”

“Eh, might do,” John forfeits from possessive instincts for his own sake, “But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s a normal lad and I’ve still got two sides of the coin to land on.”

He’s not sure why he had said that, maybe because he half suspects that Paul would have answered the same way. Funny that, the two of them being so intertwined. He hopes, foolishly hopes, that Paul has these little moments too. 

The blond man grins and reels back towards the bar, “Can’t spend your days flipping coins, John.”

The artist resorts to muscle memory, stepping through swollen groups of people to reach the doors. The night air outside is smokey and offers little solace from the loneliness welling up. He calls Brian’s car to take him back home, voice sounding distant to his own ears. He dials Peter’s number while he waits. He’s swaying on his feet, bleary-eyed and heavy-hearted and missing half of himself. That’s all he can feel, the emptiness that Paul leaves in his wake. The strength of his adoration, the love that emcompasses everything in gold. There are thoughts, fleeting and lingering all the same, swirling in the pools of scotch and coke in the hinges of his limbs. That clumsy warm feeling he gets when he’s drunk but not drunk enough to cause riots. Just enough to be miserable. Enough to yearn for what he wishes he could have.

“Yes, this is Peter speaking,” an irritated voice grumbles through static. 

“John Lennon, here. Need to speak to Paul,” he says it so easily it almost surprises him. 

“Ah, yeah, sure,” Peter drawls, and John smiles - recalling Paul telling him something about Peter always trying so hard to be American, “He’s probably out, you know how guys are. Try his hotel room, I’ll give you the number. It’s important, yeah?”

“Yes,” John says, without doubt. It’s always important. He waits, half aware of the anxious wringing of his hands as he holds the phone to his ear with his hunched shoulder.

“Hm, yes, hello?” Paul greets, voice sleep soaked and rumbling. John’s heart settles at the sound.

“Didn’t mean t’ wake up the baby,” John smiles softly, “Jus’ wanted t’ know when you’ll be back in town. I need to tell you… all these things I can’t remember.”

Paul chuckles, “I called you an hour ago to tell you, actually, I’ll be back by the fifth. I pleaded, y’know.”

“Know your way around the law, eh?” John fixes his coat over his chest to preserve the heat, “Might go without saying, but I’ve been thinking about... the cover. If you ever want someone else to do it… You can tell me.”

A pause, “It’s been months, why- Have you been drinking?”

“Yeah,” John breaths out, eyes closed, “But I mean it. If it was Robert… or even someone with you now, I don’t-”

“John, no,” Paul interjects softly, “I don’t want them… _to do the cover_ . I never did. I- Well it’s different, yeah? It’s all different and it’s _better_ with you, is the thing.”

“Yeah?” John croaks, the oozing warmth of intoxication heating his core.

“Of course, you daft thing… Thought we’d said as much that morning I left.”

John’s cheeks flush, “What did we say? We didn’t say anything, Paul.”

A moment passes, Paul’s ticking head almost audible, “Why now? Why tell me now when I’m in Glasgow?”

He almost sounds shy. They both seem to take deep breaths at the same time. 

“That might be the only way I _can_ tell you,” John blinks, eyes focused on the men gathered by the doors of the gay bar, chatting as they smoke, “An’ I think… I think I’m different. I think it’s ‘cause I’m jus’ not wired like others. They’ve got blue and red, an’ I’ve got green an’ orange or summat. Do ye know what I mean? I’m saying… If you want other people, maybe that’s normal. Maybe I shouldn’t drag ye down t’ my level. Maybe you should be a big star without carrying my dead weight around.”

“Fucking hell, John,” there’s a shuffling at the other end of the phone, “Don’t- Christ, I’m not good at this, ye know that.”

“Neither am I,” John huffs, “But we have to, don’t we?”

“Over the bloody phone? While you’re pissed?” Paul laughs, exasperated, “I’ve told you, there’s no one that does it for me like you.”

John spots his car pulling up beside the sidewalk, “Sometimes I just want to tell you everything. I don’t want you to run…” 

“I won’t,” Paul replies softly, “I think we should… I think that would be good.”

“I miss you,” John could almost sob with it. The line is dead and he’s still holding on, blue-hearted but he knows that love prevails. He hopes it will.

-

He’s drawing faces carved into the side of a cliff, the large tributes looming over a small seaside town. He imagines the locals trekking across long winding dirt roads to present offerings to these monuments, these mystic overseers. He uses a palette knife to carve the curve of half-lidded eyes, the slope of a familiar nose. 

The knock of the door is a pleasant thump to interrupt the wistfulness of the afternoon. He opens the door, Paul standing tall and lean in a navy and white paisley button up shirt and velvet pants on his doorstep. They both grin, pulling each other into the hallway to kiss. He sighs, a puzzle being solved when they press against each other. 

Paul sags against him, “Christ, that flight knocked me out.”

“Head to bed, then,” John murmurs, fingers running up the subtle ridges of his spine.

“Thought you would have wanted something else,” Paul teases softly, forehead pressed to John’s collarbone. 

“I’m no degenerate, you know,” John chuckles, “I can resist you for a few hours.”

“Consider my confidence wounded,” Paul laughs, pulling away just to regard him sleepily, “I’ve missed you.”

The blooming of roses inside his chest, petals unfurling in quick succession to reveal what he has known all along - this is what he wants, always. For Paul to want him, to come home to him. John cups his jaw with a gentle hand, thumb running over where the dark under Paul’s eyes starts to fade. 

“How about we both have a kip?” his voice is barely a whisper. Paul smiles, hand reaching up to hold John’s wrist. 

They kick off their shoes and unbutton their pants before they slip under the covers, Paul twisting over to close the gap between them and snake his arm over John’s torso, nose pressed to his collar. 

“I was nervous the whole way over, y’know,” Paul says quietly, “And then, just there, seeing you after months… Wasn’t so nervous anymore.”

John stares at the ceiling, the warmth of fuzzy comfort making a home in his bones. All those tangled roots that never grew into anything substantial now cleared. That’s it, he thinks, _clarity_. That’s what Paul is to him. He’s the daybreak, he’s the parting of clouds, he’s the strike of a chord that wakes up John’s soul. 

“We can wait ‘til you’ve slept,” John swallows hard, emotion welling up and he’s too soft to keep it tightly wound up inside, “Shit, I’m nervous too.”

“But it’s alright, isn’t it?” Paul lifts his head and then drops it back down softly, “We can survive it, I mean.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” John’s jaw sets tight, “I don’t want to shine the light on it and scare it away.”

“But we both promised we wouldn’t run.”

“Promises don’t mean anything,” John’s voice wavers, “That’s another thing I’m afraid of.”

Paul’s fingers tap along the buttons of John’s shirt, pressing them down like piano keys, “How about we just tell each other the truth, then? In spite of all the danger.”

“Alright,” he breathes out, slow and steady, wondering if the heavy thumping of his heart is audible under Paul’s ear, “The truth is… You’d know it anyway, but… The truth is I want it all with you. And I only want it to be you. There’s no one else I could be with now.”

Paul’s hand stills over his ribs for a beat before he rests it entirely over John’s sternum, palm warming the center of his chest, “Alright, my turn. The truth is that I’m a careful sort of person, an’ the fact I don’t want anyone else either is… well, it’s frightening, y’know? I withdraw when I’m scared but I can’t even do that with you because it hurts to be without something so...important.”

A cautious breath, “There’s no one else?”

“No, there isn’t. Never was. But John,” Paul props himself up slowly on his elbow, hand still laid flat on his chest, “You and Brian at the club that night… You and Brian this whole time… You go to ‘im when there’s something off between us and I gotta know…” 

“Know what?” John watches worry laced in the shadows of Paul’s expression, the line of his mouth, the blank slates of his eyes.

“Do you love him?” Paul says it like the words have been dragged out with a painful scrape.

John shifts upwards, “I love him as a friend. I love him because he loves me and he believes in me, but I don’t… I can’t describe that connection. It’s not like this, not even close. He looks out for me, but you just- Well that’s it, isn’t it? You’re the other half. All those cliches that I love and loathe, they’re all you.”

The words drip with sincerity and warmth, the beams of light in a heart so closely guarded for so long now burst through all the dead and gone. 

“You worried about him all this time?”

Paul bites back his lip, “Not worried, just curious. Concerned?... Alright, yeah, I was worried. I didn’t understand the dynamic and I was too afraid to ask, I might not have liked the answer.”

“You asked me in Paris, I gave you the answer,” John points out, “I told you he was my friend.”

“I don’t know,” he exhales a release of tension, “Maybe I was afraid I didn’t understand you, that I didn’t understand how… well it sounds a bit daft, but, how all these things I never knew about, how they worked. How _you_ worked. Just small seeds of doubt nagging at me when I’d see you two together.”

“That’s how it felt to see you and Robert,” John admits shyly, “I thought I had been clear. Or clear enough.”

“I think it has to work both ways, really. Two of us on the same page.”

“Alright, we can do that,” John tucks a lock of hair back behind his ear.

Paul’s eyes divert downwards, “I don’t want to let you down, but there’s this dream you have for the two of us that we can’t live out, running around Paris… But I can’t give up music. I need you to know that.”

“I won’t ask you to,” John promises, “I just want this, anything else is just idealistic dreaming and I don’t need all of it, not if I have this. We just have to talk things over, push aside our huge egos.”

Paul sinks back down into the mattress and presses a kiss over John’s chest, “That’s all I need. And you know, we can go back there one day. But what we have now, that can last, I know it can. We don’t need Paris to be like this.”

John closes his eyes, “Like this.”

“Lovers isn’t enough,” Paul smiles into John’s skin, “And it sounds strange.”

“How about partners?” John chuckles, “Thought we had agreed on that before.”

“In work and in life.”

“In sickness and in wealth,” John supplies, smile curling his lips, “For betty or for worse.”

“To have and to hold,” Paul says, “I’d like that.”

They both drift, dreamy and soft and warm. The tangle of their bodies and minds, the intermingling of their dreams, washed over in gold light. 

-

**1978, January**

**I: John, you claimed in a recent interview that your inspiration for your latest collection “Two of Us” was simply “the power of two”. Some critics noted that there are nods to the concept of bisexuality in multiple works. Was this intentional?  
** **J:** _Well, the main one, the one with two hands being tied together and becoming free, that came from something James Dean had said. That he wasn’t homosexual but he wouldn’t go through life with one hand tied behind his back or something. I wasn’t going to leave out sex, you know. It’s a popular thing._

 **I: Do you consider yourself bisexual?  
** **J:** _Sure. And I can say that now, but had to use smoke and mirrors back when it was against the law. More people talk about it now, it’s no issue among artists, you know. We’re all a little bent, but you didn't hear that from me, dear readers._

 **I: You have been known to stir up the public before, are you just toying with our audience for the sake of being controversial?  
** **J:** _I have better games to play. And, you know, I promised my manager I’d stop causing riots. Sorry, Brian!_

 **I:** **This collection is called “The Power of Two”, if you had to pick your two favourite pieces, which would you pick?  
** **J** : _I quite like the little pop art one, had to be convinced to mess around with screen printing by my old pal Stuart Sutcliffe. He did all that stuff with Warhol and The Velvet Underground, so he was onto it before I was, running around New York like the madman he is. Anyway, it’s a bit like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, that’s why I dig it. Strange figures with all this poetry swirling around._

 **I: And the other?  
** **J** : _The painting of a good friend of mine, Paul McCartney. He’s sitting in Strawberry Fields, near where we grew up. I had come up with the idea for him to write a song about it, ‘cause it sounds like something from a song. So that’s one he worked on for a long time and eventually we got it right. I do all the covers for his albums and singles and what have you, so it’s inside the sleeve of the latest album that he’d be happy to see me promoting in my own bloody interview… I only joke! Hello Paul! But yeah, you know, I like that one the best._

 **I: Paul McCartney is on a worldwide tour at present, how do you keep up with one another?  
** **J:** _I shout into the void and he shouts back. We’ve been good friends for years now, there’s no problem keeping up with each other._

 **I: I understand you are leaving for Paris when we wrap this up, you might run into him there, since he’s doing his European circuit.  
** **J:** _Oh, you’re a clever one, aren’t you?_

 **I: Thank you, John Lennon, for this interview. Safe travels. Congratulations on your tremendous success.  
** **J:** _You’re welcome. Suppose I better get going, my flight leaves in an hour._

 **I: Is that pocket watch you’re holding at an antique?  
** **J** : _Oh, I don’t know. It must be old, I’ve been carrying it around for centuries now. It’s a good luck charm, not that I’m superstitious… but it’s nice, isn’t it?_

-

“Aw, look at you being all soft,” Paul coos, prodding John’s cheek, “It _is_ a nice pocket watch.”

“I’ve got a sweetheart with impeccable taste,” John drawls, pinching the corner of the page and flipping it over, “How about this, eh? Your albums in a stack behind me. I’m just a walking McCartney advertisement, ought to get paid for it.”

They look down at a photo taken of John in their home in London, a big bright an airy studio with John sitting in centre, smiling at something (or someone) off camera.

“Does a luxury hotel in Paris suffice?” Paul gestures to the rather outrageous hotel room they are occupying, sitting cross legged on the bed with a record playing in the other room. 

“Suppose so,” the artist sinks down to lay on his side, looking Paul up and down. The partially opened window allows a light breeze to drift through, sunbeams spilling onto the carpet. It’s a gentle tint of orange, a dreamy and nostalgic kind of colour, and it sits in Paul’s hair, reflects off the shining body of his guitar, washes over the bed covers. It’s as though the pages of their book have yellowed with age, but the story remains as brilliant and powerful as it had been at the start. Paul’s lyrics, pages and pages of them, spelling out their story. Their love. All that shimmering fountain water being sprouted up into the air is a far cry from the murky dread of the docks, the grime enveloping his exposed flesh and the hopelessness of not having a purpose. He feels the gentle look Paul is giving him before he glances back to meet his eyes, and there it is. That soft fond look he gets sometimes, like he’s remembering everything at once. John does a poor job of hiding his grin, reaching out his hand just to touch him again, the inside of his wrist, a familiar beat underneath his fingertips.

Paul’s hair is softer, longer, a few stray grey hairs tucked beside his temples (he hides them, and laments about it until John kisses the complaining away). And John is older, and that doesn’t frighten him. Not in the least.

Paul places the magazine aside, rolling closer, smiling coyly, “I can read you like a book.”

John hums, knuckles brushing over the softness of his cheek, “Any good?”

“The best,” Paul surges forward and kisses him softly, pulling back just to grin like a cheshire cat and take John’s collar between pinched fingers, “You were right about how it is in Paris.”

“Sentimental fool,” John kisses him again and again, legs intertwining and voice fading to a faint murmur. Hands meandering, softly searching, they watch the shine in each other’s eyes. Nestled together like this, he’s reminded how well they fit together. He never stops marvelling at that, the effortlessness in which they can slip together again and again after all these years. Paul is pure brilliance and light and colour and comfort. He’s a spark in the dark, a window for the light to shine through. He’s the unceasingly spinning cogs, the peaceful rest. John’s lids fall to crescent shapes, the habit of sleepy admiration when it’s just the two of them in bed and they’re too tired to speak with words. 

His mind constricts around the feeling, the colour of this moment. The colour of words that have gone obsolete, words that pale in comparison to what they are experiencing. Sometimes his chest quakes with it, that look Paul is giving him now. 

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you.”_

It no longer matters whether the words really tumbled from their lips, it’s there. It swirls in the shadows, it brightens the light. It shines and glows. It’s been spoken so many times before. Gold, pure gold, cupped in his hands where they are cradling Paul’s jaw to bring him closer for another kiss. Gold, pure gold, where Paul’s mouth murmurs words into the edge of his jaw that renders John in a pure state of tranquil awe. 

-

_Here we are_

_Where are we_

_Cast adrift on some uncharted sea_

_I know we'll find our way_

_I know we'll reach the end_

_If you will say you'll be my secret friend_

-

_Grow old along with me_

_Whatever fate decrees  
_

_We will see it through  
_

_For our love is true_

_-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, thank you for reading this fic, I appreciate every single comment and kudos and message sent to my tumblr (thisbirdhadflownx). You have no idea how much it means to me. I'm so glad I have this clumsy little fic out there for people to (hopefully!) enjoy. I set out to create a little alternate path for John and Paul to walk, and hope I did them justice. Again, thank you for the support and love.


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